


Free Falling

by twistedthicket1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Complete, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Teenlock, Wing!lock, Winglock, it's complicated - Freeform, the whole age thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:18:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 203,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Guardian angels are born with a Chosen human. When this child is born, the angel comes into being to protect and care for them during their life on Earth. For John Watson, all he cares about in the world revolves around his Chosen, Sherlock Holmes. Watching him grow up though, the angel soon learns that God must have had a sense of humor the day he decided to make Sherlock, as trouble seems to follow him like a magnet wherever he goes. John can't decide what's worse, the idea of losing his Chosen one, or the fact that he may be breaking the most taboo law of heaven as he disguises himself as a human to better protect and befriend the beloved detective he's always watched from afar.</p><p>He was meant to care for him.<br/>But what happens when caring evolves into something more?<br/>What happens when an emotion an angel is supposed to be incapable of possessing comes to life suddenly and viciously inside John's chest ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> so this is kind of me taking a break from my other work "starry eyed". I will update this one as often as I can, but right now at least my other story is probably often going to take precedent. I got this idea ironically while in church..... 
> 
> must stop thinking about johnlock in church.... but that's a different story....
> 
> Please let me know if you think I should continue with this!  
> comments and kudos are welcome! :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely beta Iolre for fixing this chapter up!! :) Also thank you to Pigfarts23 for polishing this chapter up ^_^

 

 

Someone once said that falling can sometimes be mistaken for flying, if one only looked at it from a different perspective.

If one could just flip their thoughts upside down, they could be streaking in mid air, plummeting to depths of unknown ends and still have a faint smile grace their features.

They could soar, their chests pounding with the incredible feeling of flight, ending their heady and crazy trip with a swift and almost peaceful end.

 Well, John was the kind of person who, when he chose to look at things, often thought of them differently just  _because_ most people didn't.

Compared to his brothers and sisters, he was unusual in this way.

From the moment he was born, gasping into existence, the thought that one day he might fall never occurred to him.

 After all, why should it?

The arching wings that spread magnificently on either side of his head quivered as if made to float, their powerful softness all light and pure colours, like any other Newborn's.

A new angel, surrounded by hundreds of other brothers and sisters, awakening and taking their first breaths.

Stretching their own feathery appendages.

Born in the shining, golden home that was Father's kingdom.

Newborns struggled to stand and balance on unsteady ankles and, yet, were instantly and already older than any mortal being.

And the calling began.

 Rippling like a shockwave through the groups of children, giving them a purpose that can't help but arrest them deep in their minds like a siren, calling out to them with an infant's cry.

 The first time a Guardian hears his charge's voice, it can stir many different emotions. Each Newborn gets a taste, a lingering flavour of their Chosen's personality.

An imprint that never leaves them, and paints their wings with their first Mark.

No longer snow white, a touch on their lives. Tinting their feathers with the first experience of their abruptly eternal existence.

John remembers that Imprint, the feeling that bubbled in his belly and stained the edges of his pure white feathers brilliant green, the shade of a dragon's scale.

Not the usual feelings others spoke of, simple emotions like love or comfort or childlike want.

No.

  _Danger._

 An irresistible, longing. A craving that punched him sharply in the ribs and made his entire being quake and shiver with adrenaline, eyes blinking brilliant gold with the force of the need.

That was the first time he ever experienced what should feel like falling as flying. Instead of many of the new Guardians, who winced and cowered away from the onslaught of human emotion their Newborn minds had no hope of understanding, John leaned into the dizzying storm of thrilling chaos.

 

That was also when he heard his Father's voice for the first time, brushing his mind with an unmistakable authority and affection.

 

_**His name is Sherlock Holmes, John. Protect and love him, son, he is yours. He will need it. As well, you will need this....** _

 

 A claim to an infant he didn't know and yet instantly could identify. In his mind's eye, John knew everything he would ever need to in order to care for his Chosen.

 The five rules were given to him with a burning sort of hand touching the back of his neck, sealing the laws in place.

  
  


  _ **A Guardian angel takes care of their Chosen, loves them and cherishes them as if a part of them.**_

  _ **A Guardian angel is kind, fair, and considerate towards humans when they must deal with the Earthly world.**_

_**The life of a Guardian angel is to protect their Chosen until their time of death, then lead them to their resting place, be it heaven or hell.** _

  _ **Unless their Chosen is a high-risk level human, the Guardian angel cannot make contact with them.**_

  _ **Even if under cover as a human, a Guardian angel must never reveal their secret.**_

  _ **A Guardian Angel and their Chosen cannot be more than friends.**_

 

 Back then, he had really believed he could follow those rules.

After all, the last one was even outdated. An angel couldn't love in that way anymore, not since the great war between the Nephilim and God thousands of years before. A relic of older times, and every other rule was just to make sure one wouldn't accidentally get into trouble on Earth.

They seemed like simple things really, laws that made sense as he was guided to the dressing room, wings folding against his back and shining form dimming as he became accustomed to controlling his own heavenly glow. He stared at his reflection for the first time, human-like features settling into place and becoming natural the harder he focused.

Blue eyes.

Light blonde hair, short and well-kept.

Brushed almost militantly.

A face that was usually serious, but when he consciously smiled was handsome enough.

His eyes glowed with a holy sort of power when he tried out a tentative grin at his reflection, and that had been the beginning.

 The start of the end.

His birth, and the death of him.

All because he chose to view falling more like flying......

 

 

 


	2. Bound to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.  
> The first chapter. 
> 
> whew.  
> *wipes brow*
> 
> Please let me know what you think of it via kudo or comment, and if you spot any grammatical errors! 
> 
> The song at the beginning is you'll be in my heart by phil collins. I feel like it sums up John's feelings pretty well towards baby sherlock.... Many thanks to Pigfarts23 for editing! ^_^
> 
> :3
> 
> enjoy! <3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  _For one so small,_

_You seem so strong, m_ _y arms will hold you,_  
_Keep you safe and warm_.  
_This bond between us, c_ _an't be broken_.  
_I will be here, d_ _on't you cry_

_'Cause you'll be in my heart_  
_Yes, you'll be in my heart_  
_From this day on_  
_Now and forever more_......

 

 

 

 

John was sent to Earth on Sherlock's first birthday. The mark between infant and child, a day celebrated not only far below in human houses. In Heaven, it was like a giant festival, everything happening simultaneously and yet set in a fixed time line. There were parties being thrown for every. Single. Child. Yet, everyone participated in all of them. When one was immortal, one could afford to celebrate. 

Heaven was like that, an infinite party mixed with endless light. Countless scenes overlapped each other in what would easily destroy a human mind, but was no issue for an angel in the middle of celebrating new families, new life. On that day especially, the first year of a human child's life, the angels celebrated a graduation of sorts. Nervously running his hands through his hair, John reminded himself to stay calm, even as he checked himself in the small mirror that had materialized in front of him. His familiar reflection gazed back at him readily, smiling in an easy way. He could do this. He was ready- all of his training said so. 

Inside his chest was already bubbling with excitement, the call of the distant infant's mind drawing him like a moth to a flame. His bare shoulders rolled with the feeling, tensing and relaxing as his wing-tips quivered, flapped. They were ready for the long flight ahead, anticipating the moment they would touch Earth's atmosphere, breathe in human life. The feathers shook at the ends, like an addict searching for his high, and John wondered if all drug users felt so jittery, like they might jump out of their own skin. These however were not angelic thoughts, and John quickly dismissed them.

Be good today. That was all his Father had told him.  _Be good._ John was taking no chances, not even with his thoughts. 

 

Of course, the party that greeted him was lively with celebration already by the time he arrived. John finished his training, meaning the baby survived his first year, a thing to bring happiness to his brothers and sisters, who raised their goblets in appreciation. They would dance and talk and give him life advice, while occasionally blinking out to deal with their Heavenly duties. The young angel felt a surge of affection for all of them, even though they numbered in the thousands. His family, all touching his shoulders and wishing him well. So many people, all so proud. He felt his mind thrum with their candescent, choral voices.

  ** _Congratulations John!_**

**_Well done!_ **

**_Go find Sherlock, John. Wish him well for us!_ **

**_Send our regards John! You'll make us proud!_**

 

He mentally thanked all of them for the praise, lingering only slightly on the ones he knew better. Mostly his training buddies, like Mike or Harriet. He and Harry had both been born side-by-side, and were more like siblings than any of the others. She planted a gentle kiss on his cheek in pride when he passed her, smile luminescent. When she spoke, it was in the depths of his own mind. 

  ** _I know you've been waiting for so long.... This moment seems like forever to most..._**

 John was inclined to agree, drinking deeply from his cup and licking his lips at the wine-like taste. Fruity, but unable to bring drunkenness. He wondered how being drunk would even feel like, and suspected that in Sherlock's later years, he'd find out. The concept of time still confused him slightly. 

 

A year could seem like an eternity, especially when one couldn't just blink it by like they were used to. For a training Guardian, they had to live the entire stretch of time like a human would, to get used to how Earthly time passage worked. At times it had been infuriating, but John had managed somehow. Each time The Call (the sound of Sherlock's soul crying to him) came to him he would patiently soothe it, sending comforting waves from his mind even as he trained. He worked through each dreadful, twenty-four hour day, learning about his own body and how it would react to different signals, being taught about the principals of protection of another, and most of all learning of the Ancient Days.

The Ancient Days was Heaven's history, if a place like the Father's kingdom really  _had_ something like that. Heaven stretched through all of time and space, and had many levels and sub-levels, no one could be fully certain where it began or if it had an end. Father explained it was something like a physical projection of his mind across an astral plane, and had attempted to teach a young John the science behind it. It hadn't been part of his training, but at first John had shown interest, and his Father had thought it might motivate him to better comprehend his lessons.

 Quickly though, God realized his son was bored with such theory work and instead decided to move on and leave it for another time. Though the older angels often scolded the young guardian for his quick descent into restlessness, Father never shouted. If he had, a part of John suspected he would have been destroyed by the force of it. God could choose any form he wished, but he most often chose either the form of a greying old man with leather-tanned skin, or a small, freckled child. There was a reason for this, and part of it was the very real fear factor. Still, he was always recognizable to John, like a friendly relative. One look in those eyes that spanned across countless universes, worlds and time, and every being in Heaven knew who they spoke with, despite the vessel he portrayed. He was a very soft-spoken person, with a very kind smile. Aside from Sherlock himself, Father was the most important person in the world to John. He loved him with the warm and reckless abandon of a little child, which in God's eyes, he was.

 

So John learned under him, and became fascinated with humanity. Inevitably, it was in this way that John learned the  ** _Olde Laws._**

Rules made by God during the time of Great War, where he created from the darkness a beacon of light and forcibly drove the Night-Beings back. Demons, werewolves, all unpleasant and untrustworthy, and lead by a man who could not be named.

 “If you ever meet  _Him_  John, you call to me. Understand?”

 Father stressed this one day, stroking his dove-grey beard and regarding him with cool blue eyes. John, who had been fascinated by the fact that Father could make a white robe appear on him and  _clothe_ him, had been distracted because he had been trying to materialize some kind of article of clothing _himself._

A shirt.

A sock.

A sandal.

_Something._

He had only seemed so far to manage a single shoelace, a fact that was obviously bothering the young angel. 

 

Not that his nakedness bothered John particularly. Everyone in Heaven was bare, the need for hiding one's body an Earthly guilt. God himself only wore the robe when he had been visiting Earth for some reason, but even though it was just a simple sort of thing, it made the angel become consumed with curiosity. However, mention of  ** _Him_** overruled that fascination with questions.

“How will I know if I see Him?”

 

He had asked innocently, head tilting to the side and blue eyes sparking with trepidation. Father had smiled at him, but his normally clear eyes had changed to a thundercloud grey. John remembered years later the way his gnarled but firm hand had reached out to touch his wings, a direct touch into the young angel's soul that had made him gasp in awe and  _too-much_ feeling. It was like having someone cradle your still-beating heart in their fingers. The sensation was almost painful, burning in a slow heat just below the point of agony. A raw inferno. Still, it was hugely comforting, sending a sleepy sort of feeling tingling all along John's spine. He shuddered with it, rejoicing and recoiling simultaneously, and was both relieved and saddened when his Father gently pulled away.

 “You will know John. Believe me, you will just know.”

 And with that, he refused to speak of  ** _Him_** any longer, moving on to less unsavoury topics.

However, before they moved on, John had looked him square in the eye, jaw tightening. His eyes flashed in defiance. 

 “I'm _not_ afraid. I'm not afraid of anything.”

 And Father had smiled once more and ruffled his hair in a parental sort of way, calling him a “Stark-raving  _git_.” (Because if someone ever said God didn't swear, they were downright off the deep end as he swore  _all_  the time).

 

They turned once more to more relevant topics. Things like the subject of The Contract. The way The Contract worked was on the date of the first birthday, the child's soul was now officially in the roster. Before then, the Earthly babe was deemed an innocent, having instant access into Heaven. In fact, up until the age of ten children very rarely were sent to Hell, only the gravest of sins marring their general youthfulness and innocence. Not many children felt compelled to murder, or lie so severely that they deserved eternal damnation. As a result, if the child died before the Guardian had a chance to form a physical bond, then they would be reassigned to a new charge. The process was often long, traumatizing and  _painful_ for the angel in question, but it beat the alternative. Their choice was to either form a new bond or suffer for eternity, as an unbound angel would mourn until they just turned to dust, like golden flecks of sand scattering over a desert. Once the child turned a year, the angel was sent to Earth on it's first birthday to Bond with the baby, promising to serve them for the duration of their life and beyond, if necessary. Once Bound, the relationship couldn't be severed, even by the sharpest of blades. At least, not unless there were extremely special circumstances. God himself would be the only one who could sever a Bond directly, but John had heard of the horrifying consequences of such a decision.

The Severed angel would inevitably fall into the darkness, and become one of the Fallen. Not quite Demon and not quite Angelic, they would be forced to roam Earth for all eternity, their wings torn from their backs and the wild thirst for connection driving them into madness. Humans in the old days - when they were, sadly, more common - called them  ** _Vampyres._** The thought terrified John. Father refused to do it any more as a punishment, and whenever John asked about those days, his eyes would become so infinitely sad that the young angel would often wind up changing the subject. After all, a part of the man before him was still in that time period. Constantly re-living it, never able to leave because if that part of him left then that piece of time would fall to ruin, consumed by the Dark.

 John didn't know his Chosen, hadn't even felt him in his hands yet, but all through his first year he worried himself into distraction that something could happen. He would pace and fly in circles, almost tear his hair out when he felt Sherlock cry or scream, and the less angelic part of him would want to scream himself. The young angel couldn't have imagined being Bound to anyone else, possessiveness already forming when he closed his eyes and let his mind drift into the child's.  He was so young, he could only catch snippets. Pieces like brightly coloured patches of a quilt. A smiling, Motherly face. Warm hands. The heat from a bottle being fed to him. A cloudy image of an older boy, holding his hands through the bars of a cradle. A brother, John suspected. Once in a long while, the deep baritone of Sherlock's Earthly father, his deep baritone so low that the baby would often shriek in abject delight just from it's sound. Simple things, scenes that for whatever reason highlighted themselves in the infant's head. Often they were muddled and innocuous, but John amused himself and comforted his impatience with them into long hours of Earth's night.

 Now he was finally,  _finally_ going to be able to hear that voice for real. Touch those chubby cheeks.  _Smile_ like he had been practicing, and make that face grin at him in return. He bounced on the balls of his feet, suddenly feeling like he could just  _leap_ into the air and do a tumble-dive straight for the stars. Like he would _explode_ if he spent one more aching moment on this safe and ridiculously  _fluffy_ cloud. He wanted to be  _out._ He wanted to be  ** _there._** He needed to see that  ** _Face._**  The Call picked up again, and this time it's a shrieking demand. Sherlock could sense it. His infant-like pureness means he was super-sensitive to John's emotions, just like John was super-sensitive to his. The angel groaned, and his brothers and sisters urge him on in a singing cacophony of noise.

**_Time to go, John!_ **

**_Go to him, dear!_ **

**_JohnJohnJohnJohn-_ **

**_John and Sherlock!_ **

  ** _Find him!_**

 The pull almost unbearable, he called out to Father, knowing what he'd hear.

_Dad.... can I go? Please?!_

 

John felt the same sort of tingling on his neck from the day he was first born. A hand gently touching the back of his head. He heard in his mind one quiet and yet booming voice, drowning out all the others. His Father's timbre was filled with patient affection.

  ** _Have fun son. Go on. Sherlock's waiting._**

 

 John, who felt like his heart might explode into confetti from the palpations it was drumming to, doesn't have to be told twice. With a mighty whoop he launched himself into the air, powerful wings beating down in a magnificent swoosh that kicked up the ends of his hair and made the tips gleam like precious silver. His brothers and sisters join him, a thousand wing-beats pounding in his ears as he soared higher and higher. A thousand different colours of feathers brush past him and behind him, circling John in a mighty swirl. He was the eye of the storm, laughing like the child he wass and hardly daring to believe that he was  _free._ He had permission to  _go_ where his heart called him.

The angels about him felt his euphoria and experienced it as their own, swooping and twisting, doing front-flips and singing out their joy to the stars. In that moment, surrounded by everything he'd ever known, John sent his first image to Sherlock. It was the vision of those shining, arcing bodies, all creating a tornado of light as they fly. Down below, all Earth heard from the celebration was the sound of drumming wings, except to them, it was nothing more than the harsh clap of thunder rolling on the horizon. A baby, clutching at his dark curls and wrapped safely in warm blankets, smiled in his sleep even as a chubby thumb entered his mouth. 

 

 Sherlock was having a beautiful dream. One even his little mind marvelled in awe at. One where there were feathers and shimmering blue eyes and a myriad of colours in the background, all streaking together into an effortless painting. A voice, unfamiliar but comforting in the infant's mind. Though he should not have understood even slightly any language spoken to him, somehow in the depths of his mind, the baby did. He knew the loving tone, the sound of someone who would protect him. In his cradle, he rolled over restlessly, the dream as vivid as it was brief. He wanted the colours back. Wanted the person who Called him.

  _I'll be there soon. Happy birthday! Happy birthday Sherlock Holmes!_

 

So, wide green eyes popping open and chubby body struggling to sit up, Sherlock waited. For what, his infantile mind didn't know, his chubby arms flailed with the struggle of sitting upright, but it only made him more determined. Sitting curled in a swathe of blankets, the baby peered through the bars of his crib and gurgled questioningly into the dark. The noise was loud in the silence, his older brother rolling over and yawning in the room beside him. Somewhere, his father snored gently. Sherlock tried again, more insistently. He let out a squabbling sound like only an outraged infant could, kicking his bare feet and struggling to stand even though his body has trouble supporting him. When he fell, he wound up on his side and tangled in the sheets, and he huffed and squealed agitatedly until he could sit back up. He slapped his hands down on the blankets, physically manifesting his outrage at someone keeping him waiting, even if he didn't know who that someone was. However, for all of his fussing he didn't have to wait very long at all. It was probably only five minutes or so, but to the baby, it felt like an eternity.

 

When John appeared, he lit up the room like a night light. In a way, he was lucky that only very young children could see him in his angel form, because his glow was so bright it illuminated the small bedroom as a beacon and had the potential to wake the neighbourhood. He appeared with his eyes closed and wings still outstretched from flight, the Earthly world gasping into him and making him solid. For a moment he simply stood on his feet and swayed at the feeling of forcefully becoming an almost-living form, his heart gearing to life and pumping in his chest like a steady drum. Of course he had been told this would happen, the tapping  _Thump-Thump_ seeming to hum in his very bones. He placed a hand on his chest, fingers splayed, marvelling at the way it felt. Then he looked down at his body, which still shone with Heaven's light but had turned dimmer, a firefly instead of a flame. If he concentrated, he could brighten or extinguish that shine almost completely, leaving just a little twinkling with something otherworldly being his eyes. When he made the light go out, his skin was a light tan. Almost like he had spent a few hours in the sun.

Then the full weight of his presence hit him, and he sucked in a greedy gulp of air and couldn't help but grin widely. He was abruptly solid. Real instead of ethereal.  It was as delightful as it was disturbing, and he laughed like a little child, bell-like and clear. To his surprise, someone joined in with his laughter. John cocked his head at the noise, a white-hot and sharp  _something_ pulling at him with it's bright tone. The giggling voice was high and warm, and he recognized that it was coming from the cradle sitting in the corner of the room. Mouth suddenly going dry in nervousness, the angel remembered his original goal and tentatively stepped forward, noticing the flash of a brilliant green eye peering up at him from between the wooden bars of the cage-like bed. It was not unlike meeting your own child for the first time. The same kind of dizzying, exulting fear and adrenaline washed through John's entire body and made his new Earth-like legs threaten to turn into jelly. Expectation, trepidation, filled him. Swallowing the flash of self-consciousness that threatened to make him turn tail and hide like a child in his Mother's skirts, he took a tentative step forward. Looking down, he saw the delicate, rotund shape of a baby. Small hands. Large eyes. So easily breakable that the thought was terrifying.

John made another relieved prayer of thanks that Sherlock managed to stay alive in such a dangerous world. It was a miracle so many babies did if one thought about it. So many dangers he had heard about...Flood. Plague.  _Murders._ They ran rampant, the Darknesses' arsenal struck at random and wasn't merciful towards anyone. He stopped when chubby hands reached out to him, disgruntled gurgles uttering from Sherlock's mouth at his lack of motion. The baby let out a sort of pleading squall of borderline pain, and John's heart melted in his chest and he was running over. Reaching out with shaking fingers. Resting his hand on those dark curls.

Physical contact. It erupted through both of them, taking the angel's breath away with the overpowering  _Bond_ that weaved its way up his arm and straight into his chest in a glowing green light. Burrowing its way deep into his body, making residency with a warm lick of heat. It was  _Painful_ for just a second, he clutched at his sternum and winced, driven to his knees by the weight of an entire other existence shoving it's way into his head. Forcing him to make room. John felt like he couldn't breathe for an instant, shuddering with the unsettling sensation of an infant's mind linking to his.

Then.... after a moment the queasiness turned into a sort of warmth. A soothing fullness that the angel hadn't realized he'd been longing for since birth. A connection where before there had been emptiness. He rocked on his heels when he finally stood, and beneath him, Sherlock started to wail as if sensing his discomfort. His tiny limbs thrashed in fury, and he almost managed to knock his bassinet over with the force of his infantile rage. John immediately lifted him out of the cradle, pressing him against his chest and letting his wings curl about them protectively. He was careful and awkward in holding him, half afraid he might accidentally hurt him. Yet his arms seemed to fold into the right position almost naturally, like he knew exactly the shape of his Chosen's form, and how it should fit just above his hip like a puzzle piece. The baby before him stopped fussing at his touch, but his chubby legs still kicked restlessly as they dangled in free air. It was like he was trying to run, and the angel had to be careful to hold him because he squirmed enough in his grasp to threaten having him fall on his head.

 

_A crawler I'll bet,_ the angel thought almost amusedly. He looked over his Chosen for the first time, taking him in as Sherlock sucked on one fist and eyes the entire room from his new vantage point, taking everything in with wide green eyes. His gaze was strangely observant and coherent for such a little tyke, and he gave John an almost precocious look as he took his hand out of his mouth and reached up at the expanse of feathers arching behind his back in a hazy, glowing way.

 “ _Ta!”_

 He shrieked firmly, little face scrunched up in utmost authority. From the expression on his face as he wiggled around in the blue one-piece set he was wearing, it was almost like he was speaking.

  _And just_ ** _who_** _are_ ** _you?_**

 John smiled, lifting the babe up so that he dangled above him. Sherlock babbled with delight, and the angel was glad that the Holmeses all appear to be fairly heavy sleepers. His Charge apparently liked to make noise. Or maybe he just enjoyed having an audience to converse with.

“My name is John. I'm here to look out for you.”

Baby Sherlock almost seemed to roll his eyes, scowling deeply as soon as it was obvious the angel was not going to let him close enough to touch his wings. He instead settled for feeling the contours of John's face with warm, chubby fingers, gripping at the ends of his hair lightly and pulling once. His eyes twinkled mischievously when he elicited a wince from him.

  _“_ _Jah!”_

 The baby said, as if trying to sound out the name. He lightly slapped John's cheeks in a possessive sort of way, beaming with pride as he repeated the word proudly.

_“_ _Jah!”_

 

John grinned, because Sherlock had every  _right_ to be proud. The angel could picture it, how that awareness in the babe's eyes would one day turn into wisdom. Maybe it was because John was his guardian, but he believed that the baby in his arms would one day grow up to be a great man. He could have spent hours watching the infant, listening to his strange little lectures that seemed to make no sense and yet already held an air of authority. John could spend an eternity just trying to earn that half-smile. He realized now why a guardian angel never got bored with their mission. What could be more fascinating than watching the entire reason for one's existence just live and breathe and  _grow?_

 So enamoured by the little child, he barely heard the feather-light brush of an inhuman footstep by the doorway of the room. When the woman's voice spoke, her voice was faintly amused. It was clear and cool like a silver bell.

“I was wondering when they'd send you.”

 Setting Sherlock back into his crib (much to his chagrin as he pouted and rolled himself into a sulking ball on his side) John turned to meet one of the other guardians of the house. Her appearance was of a dark-haired woman, coffee-coloured brown eyes holding a certain poise as the young angel faced her, eyes a little bit wide and face flushed from finding real happiness for the first time. Unlike him, she wore clothes, a grey pin-striped skirt and white blouse that rippled in satin-like waves and complimented the darkness of her features as well as the paleness of her skin. When she smiled, it was with the cool collectively of someone very patient. John looked at her wings, and saw that she was young (there were still some white streaks) but not a Newborn.

Her colours were mixtures of professional blues and a sort of earthy brown, occasionally flecked through with aqua. With her immaculate appearance and beautiful feathers that remind him of a perfect summer sky, John uncomfortably felt just a bit like a waif. He concluded she must be the older brother's.  Holding out a gentle hand, she introduced herself as Anthea.

 “You just Bonded with him? I heard some noises so I came down. I'm probably the lightest sleeper in the house. Restless mind, I'm afraid. Mycroft's prone to nightmares. The others wouldn't wake if a fire went through the place.”

 The way she said the name Mycroft held an affection even her icy exterior couldn’t totally mask, and John assumed it was the name of the older Holmes boy. He smiled even as he subconsciously wrapped a wing about his rather bare form, crouching closer to the bassinet as if instinctively seeking comfort in Sherlock's closeness. The baby babbled crossly and reached at him through the bars, even though it was futile, as if to tell him to stop paying attention to other things but him. Sensing his timidness, Anthea didn't crowd him. Instead, she gently prodded him into speaking by asking him questions.

 “Have a name?”

 “John....”

He cleared his throat after a moment and responded, flushing a little bit. Running his tongue over his lower lip, he thought to apologize.

“Sorry for waking you. I really didn't mean to. I just-”

 “It's okay.” The angel laughed good-naturedly. Her angelic glow was almost invisible as she sat herself down in the rocker on the corner, folding her legs elegantly. Poshness screamed off her, and John found himself more than just a little bit intimidated. Angels tended to reflect the personalities to a certain extent of their Chosen. If this was how  _she_ was, he wondered what Mycroft was like.

 “I remember my Bonding well. Couldn't stop crying in joy. You're doing very well, considering most Newborns can't help but shout or sing or even faint in shock. And I've noticed your little wardrobe problem. It's okay if you wish to go naked, Lord knows most angels  _do_ , but I'm guessing Father forgot to tell you that you can just imagine an outfit onto yourself. When I say  _forget_ I mean that sometimes he has a warped sense of humour.”

She smirked, and this time John laughed in earnest. Reaching into his mind, he envisions clothing not as prim and formal as his rather icy counterpart, thinking soft material and comfort instead of professionalism. Something that wouldn't throw a baby or small child off. What appeared on his person was a woollen blue jumper, dark jeans, and chestnut brown shoes. He held out his arms in front of him in partial awe and partial excitement, loving the way the soft texture felt scratchy against his skin. John was very proud of himself; until he caught Anthea smirking. Ears turning red, he folded his wings protectively about himself.

 “What? What is it?”

The older angel, however, simply shook her head, rising gracefully from the chair and making as if to leave.

“Nothing.”

She giggled behind her palm, the first real emotion gracing her features and making her beauty for just a moment become  _luminescent._

“It's just...... you dress like an  _old man_.”

 He huffed at her laughter, even though it was quite a lovely sound. If he wasn't so absorbed in the feeling of the Bond and his own childlike excitement about being on Earth, John might have found her distracting. He was never as good as the other angels about being solitary, and though he liked to spend time alone, he enjoyed others' company. He had many friends, and though he could easily picture spending hours on end just in Sherlock's company, he could also see himself being okay in a large crowd of humans.

So long as they couldn't see him, of course.

Staying true to her angelic personality, the Guardian began to fade into invisibility, even as she bade him a fond adieu.

 “I will be around... though you might not see me... I like my peace and quiet. The others are called Sherridan and Rupert, and are older. They can be grouchy with young ones, so be careful.  _Do_  try to be quiet, at least until dawn....”

 With that last warning, Anthea vanished into shadow, a type of magic that was actually quite tricky, but, somehow, she made it look effortless. John was left with a tetchy Sherlock and an unexpected warmth flooding him, despite the chill the other angel seemed to bring with her like an untainted shield. He decided, as he took silent vigil for the night over his Chosen in the rocker she occupied before, that he liked her, despite it. She seemed kind enough, and actually had an almost motherly nature under the mask of class and poshness. One thing was for sure: he was glad that Anthea had decided not to stick around for too long. It gave him time to just lean against the cradle and grin at the babbling baby, who seemed to be trying to crawl out of his bassinet at the moment, ignoring the possibility of him cracking his skull open on the floor.

 It was true that soon Sherlock would not be able to see him; his babe-like mind would soon become entangled in the reality of Earth. Still, a part of John loved the way those green eyes focused on him,  _saw_ him and claimed ownership. It was nice to feel wanted, even if it was only by an uncomprehending infant. He wondered what Sherlock saw when he looked at him, as the only person who'd ever taken time to analyse him until now was himself. Did he see John's inexperience? His willingness to be a good Guardian? Did he see how he felt different from the other angels somehow, from the moment he was born? Or did he see that wanting to belong, to be normal? Or at least as normal as a servant of God could be? He looked into those green irises, marvelling at the speed in which the tiny thoughts in his head moved. Flipping between events of the day and John, the confinement of the crib and John, the annoyance of the one-piece and  _JohnJohnJohn._

They bounced back and forth in the confines of his mind like a bouncy ball sent into a room made of rubber. Still, there was a kind of soothing quality to the never-ending bustle. Like the traffic in a city, it rumbled with the kind of comforting atmosphere of raindrops smattering against a window-pane. It was in this way that Sherlock actually lulls himself back to sleep, the tumbling thoughts slowing down methodically even as the babies' eyes struggled to stay open. He put up a good fight, kicking his heels even as a massive yawn threatened to swallow him whole. John laughed at his persistence warmly, reaching into the crib to pin the wiggling child in place with a steadying palm of his hand.

 “Shh. It's okay. I'll be here in the morning.... I'll always be here.”

 For a few moments longer, he struggled against the angel's gentle but firm grip, growling at him in sleepy frustration. But not even Sherlock could fight the dregs of sleep forever, and soon the infant's eyes slid closed in huffy resignation and his breaths slowed. His limbs fell slack on either side of him, and John made sure to dim his glow just a little bit more, so as not to disturb him as he stood and draped a blanket over the baby's form. His hands lingered on those sprawling dark curls for a moment in the dark, but already John could feel his Father calling him distantly. Probably eager to to have his son regale him with what he thought of his little human creation.

The git  _knew,_  of course, that John was completely taken with him, so the angel didn't see a need to exactly hurry as he stood without haste. He let his wings spread once more, rolling his shoulders free of the stiffness they had acquired in his long sitting. The feathers rippled once in a shimmering pattern, and then he was fading, turning back into a column of light that rivalled the moon's opalescent orb. The light illuminated Sherlock's sleeping face one last time, face lit up in a perfect and comforting smile.

 It was that memory that he held in his chest, locked away in his mind. The image of pure childlike innocence, wrapped in layers of blanket and safety.

 The moment when his life finally began.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song is 'Never alone' by Barlow Girl.
> 
> I thought it reflected Sherlock's view when John disappears. A part of him still knows he's there, deep down....
> 
> Let me know what you think! <3
> 
> Love all of you!!
> 
> Many thanks to Pigfarts23 for helping me polish up this chapter ^_^

 

 

 

  _I waited for you, today_.

_But you didn't show_  
_No no no_....  
_I needed You, today_.  
_So where did You go?_  
_You told me to call_ ,  
_Said You'd be there_  
_And though I haven't seen You_  
_Are You still there?_

_I cried out with no reply_  
_And I can't feel You by my side_  
_So I'll hold tight to what I know_  
_You're here and I'm never alone_

 

 

 

And so, nearly four years passed in relative calm.

John watched each day in fascination and curiosity as Sherlock began the human process of turning from a relatively immobile infant into a stumbling toddler. It was an interesting and abrupt thing, starting and stopping in twists and jerks. The angel often watched his Chosen roll senselessly on the floor the way babies do, sucking his thumb and peering brightly around the world with utter absorption. However, Sherlock soon found his immobility distressing, as often he reached for something or wanted to move to another side of the room but was unable. Finding he couldn't often resulted in shrieks and cries until someone came to his aid, and often John was left with a dull insistent ache in his chest and wishing fervently he could pick the baby up himself. However, the rules were he was not to be seen, so even though Sherlock often shot him accusatory glances and begged for his help in his squalling, he had to grit his teeth and ignore him. Though he never vanished in front of the baby, it still upset Sherlock greatly. John didn't want his Chosen to think he didn't care, because he  _did._ It was just that there was always someone  _around._

 

The Holmes manor was a large place, and John, when he had decided to tour it, marvelled at the Earthly riches that were imbued in the very wood walls themselves. Strong beams made of oak and mahogany were painted with elegant colours and stained to a rich darkness that was glossy and would be beautiful, if John wasn't used to the beauty of Heaven. There were three whole floors, and each was equal in cold splendour. The art was Gothic in nature, but not the sort of punk Goth that he had witnessed a few teenagers expressing themselves in outside when he had glanced out the window one morning (Nearly given him a heart-attack too, he had thought them at first to be Demons!). He was reminded distinctly of the Victorian era of human history, though certain modern twists such as electricity and running water were an obvious benefit. It seemed to fit Mr. and Mrs. Holmes well, from his silent observations of them.

Violet Holmes was a very proper, charming human. The first time he saw her, along with her angel Rupert lingering in the background, John had almost wondered if she could see him with the way her clear blue eyes fixed almost directly on him. He had held his breath in shock, heart pounding, until he had realized with relief she was just looking at her son, who was trying yet again to reach for John's wings. Her long, elegant neck was laced with pearls, and her ginger-brown hair was twisted into a delicate knot at the hollow of her collarbone. There was an effortless grace in her every step as she crossed the threshold to the living room, derailing Sherlock's efforts unknowingly by scooping him into her arms. Her smile was a wintery sort of thing, but it was genuine as she laughed at her son's vocal protests of being lifted off the ground. He reached for John and scowled, but since she couldn't see the shrugging angel, she merely thought he was groping to be put back onto the hardwood floor.

 

“Now, now Sherlock  _hush_ your fussing.” She spun gently with him in her arms, shadow casting long and sharp in the streaming sunlight from the silken curtains.

 The baby huffed in her ear, chubby cheeks turning into a pout. He flicked an angry glare at John and the angel shrugged helplessly.

  _Nothing I can do._

 To his surprise, Rupert chuckled at the entire scene, standing in the doorway.

That had been the first time he heard the Guardian's voice, or even paid him any mind.

He had been a shadow to avoid, the cautioning words of Anthea ringing in his mind.

_They can be grouchy with young ones._

 

A cross angel was never someone to tangle with, especially if they were older. More experience, more power, and John was as green as spring grass. As a result, he had done his best to be almost invisible if he could, fading into shadows or the background when he was needed or wanted Sherlock's company. Neither the fire-haired Sherridan nor Rupert had tried to speak to him either, so John supposed they preferred solitude. Which was okay, since he had his Chosen, and John was content just being around him.

When he looked at the angel in uncertain questioning, his blue eyes first took in the fully coloured wings folded lightly about his tall and lithe form.

For one, they were the first he had seen in a long time that were not purely soft and fluffy-looking. Instead, they had the angular shape of a bird of prey, sharp and suggesting a power that made John look at his own still-soft feathers and frown a little bit in envy. Shed of all the downy delicateness of Newborns, they rippled with a subtle kind of power even as he stepped forward, the suit he wore looking pristine and dark as his hair. The feathers were of a deep and richly accented purple and grey, overlapping one another and creating a sort of camouflaged effect. It took John a moment to notice the ivory lacing of colour, twisting silvery like a snake down the feathers and making them shimmer mysteriously. Almost as if they were wet. Marring one side was a jagged pink scar that bit across the sinew and feather, scarring the soul directly. It made John suck in a breath and wince.

For something to mark an angel's wings like that, an event had to be highly traumatic; even then, it was rare that it would be so profound and dark. The line ran from one subtly muscled shoulder, curving into the axillaries to wing-tip, spider-webbing at the edges so that it cut into primary and secondary feathers, being at once ugly and beautiful in its own way, glinting like cool steel. A savage memory that John was certain he could not just idly bring up in some discussion, so he averted his eyes in embarrassment and rested his gaze on the angel's face. Rupert himself was a very composed looking angel, his eyes a flaming blue and features elfin in nature. Dignified grey silvered his hair in places, and his voice was deep and melodious. He radiated power, strong enough to press on John's sternum and make him want to shy away.

 “Your name is John?”

 

The young angel kept his shoulders straight and didn't cower like he wanted to, his jaw firm as he nodded stiffly. He felt like his skin was somehow being stripped away under the piercing gaze of the older being before him. As the Mother of Sherlock hummed under her breath even while pointedly moving her son's fingers from their reaching pull towards her earrings, Rupert flashed him a small smile. 

“I feel the need to introduce myself, at least once without Anthea's help that is. Don't bother with Sherridan, her Chosen likes to be alone to begin with, so she's nearly impossible to start up a conversation with. It's been almost ten years since I've last heard her speak.” His smirk was light at John's open astonishment at such a claim. He could not imagine spending  _days,_ let alone  _years_ around someone and not at least asking them to run an errand or  _something._ As if reading his mind Rupert shrugged, hands going into the pockets of his pants casually. It was a decidedly relaxed gesture, which made John release some of the tension in his shoulders and spine. “When you've known someone for a long time, you don't always have to speak to know what they're thinking. Violet has known Aldrin since they were children..... so I have known her for around twenty-eight human years.”

 Those wise, quiet eyes flicked over to the mantel, and he shrugged in a lazy sort of way, as if he had answered all of John's silent questions, instead of creating a thousand more. John soon learned that was just Rupert's way. Like a shadow cast on the floor, his answers were often sparse and two-dimensional, but promised a depth behind the unspoken.

 

His thoughts broke away from the memory as Sherlock, thoroughly frustrated with  _not_  being able to reach a book on the second shelf, suddenly gripped both ends of the bookcase. Dark brows furrowing into heated concentration, John watched open-mouthed as the little boy heaved himself upwards, standing on legs that were once wobbly and now stood firm. His mother had put him down, distracted by a phone call.The angel watched as for a moment he toddled in place, holding his breath as if a stray breeze might send him toppling over onto his head. Sherlock was utterly focused on his task, so much so that he bite his little lip in what was the stunning likeness of his Mother's expression that John witnessed on long nights watching her peer over bank notes, calling absently for her husband even while rubbing at her temples tiredly. Turning with slow precision, he coasted along the side of the shelf, picking up speed slowly but surely. John leaned forward, half to make sure he can catch him just in case, half because he found himself cheering on those concentrated little thoughts inside his head.

  _That's it!_

_You can do it!_

_Keep going Sherlock! Don't give up now....._

 

Grunting as if to acknowledge his presence, the baby curled his tiny hands into fists and all but lunged for the table halfway across the room, forcing himself with bodily movement into taking unsteady steps. When he made it to the table's edge, his entire upper half leaned against it, panting in little gasps that shook his entire chest. He was still standing.

_Still upright._

  ** _That.... was brilliant._** John couldn’t help but think, and he  _swore_ he heard the baby scoff in a downright smirk.

 

Sherlock, looking entirely too smug with himself for a supposedly innocent little baby, turned as if so grin triumphantly at John. A laugh escaped his lips, preparing to bubble up into the air and send that familiar feeling of butterflies and happiness into John's stomach, except it died halfway. Stopped and caught in his throat and stuck there. The angel saw the look of confusion cross Sherlock's cherubic face, smile fading as he wondered what could possibly be wrong. The toddler's eyes flicked to where he sat, but then look all around the room in slow panic. His voice gurgled out inquiringly, tentative in the quiet of the living room.

 “Ja?”

 His way of saying John. Calling for him. Except John was right in front of him. The angel felt a stab of something hot and painful in his chest.

 

_No._

_Not already....._

_Was it really so soon?_

_He was only a year and a half....._

 He found himself crouching right in front of Sherlock's unseeing eyes, touching his little shoulders. Except his hands passed right through him, like they would with an adult's.

“I'm here. I'm here.” He murmured, but the toddler obviously couldn’t hear him, as his little voice rose in unmistakable fear.

 “ _Ja?!”_

Then outrage broke like thunder, his chubby face turning bright pink as Sherlock unleashed the unmistakable shriek of a small child and called John's name, pulling on their invisible link so hard that John winced physically and gasped at the toddlers' mental strength. “ _JA!”_ A demand. A plea that John tried desperately to answer but can't. He found his hands reaching up to lightly stroke the trembling child's cheek, eyes becoming mournful but resigned in the knowledge that this would happen. The young angel knew from his training that almost all children lost the ability to see angels as they grew up. For many, it came around the time they started speaking, for others when they graduated from rolling around on the floor to walking. He just didn't expect it to happen so  _soon._ Most children were almost  _three_ before they lost sight of their own Guardian.

Of course, John had known Sherlock's vision towards the other angels of the household had been becoming blurry lately. He no longer reached at Rupert's beard when Violet scooped him up, or scowled at Sherridan and her stony silence when he clung to his Father's ankles. Even Anthea and her friendly demeanour now had little affect on him, and John had witnessed Sherlock actually pass  _through_ her in his haste to get to a certain toy, something he had never done to any of the angel's before. But to stare into those green eyes and see no trace of recognition, not even _acknowledgement_ of his presence was at once horribly painful as it was bitter-sweet.

Sherlock was beginning to grow up. This meant he was old enough to begin his journey to thinking like an adult. Becoming a boy, and then a teen, then a man. His rationalizations did little to help him as his little one leaned his head back into a full-blown wail, the sound tearing into John and making  _him_ want to do the same.

 

An instant later Mycroft stumbled in from outside, his knees dirty and scratched and hair windblown from running. For an eight year old, his eyes flashed with far too much adult-like frustration, and he scowled even as he stalks forward into the living room and passed through John like he's nothing more than a column of light, hoisting his little brother up to his hip and muttering irritatedly under his breath. Behind him, Anthea floated into pallid existence, dark brown eyes looking at John worriedly, reading his thoughts and his stiffened posture more easily than a book.

 “ _Christ_  Sherlock, couldn't you have waited until Mummy or Father were done with their phone calls?”

 In response to his brother's probably rhetorical question Sherlock flung his tiny fists at his back, screeching his defiance of being pulled away from what he felt was the  _scene of the crime._ Where his angel had downright vanished on him. Except John was still there, feeling like his stomach had dropped out from under him and left his organs to spill forward onto the floor.

 

****

 

Four years passed, and John sometimes looked back and wondered if that was the beginning of Sherlock's trust issues. After all, he had promised that he would never leave him, and somewhere, subconsciously at least, his Chosen had been aware of this vow. He kept his promise, but not in a visible way. John watched over Sherlock as he grew from that day. At first, he would not stop crying and screaming, so much so that Violet and her husband Aldrin found Mycroft almost tearing his hair out and crying himself when they got home. For the rest of the month, he retreated into himself in a way a normal baby wouldn't. He stopped babbling. He curled up into his cot and refused to move unless picked up. And sometimes, he would call sadly out into the night, small voice ringing in John's ears.

“ _.....Ja?”_

 

The angel, attached to all of his emotions and able to feel the horrible loneliness that filled his Chosen, could only clutch his head between his hands and wait. Wait for Sherlock to forget as Anthea assured him he would. Most of the time though he was left alone to deal with the pain. His Father checked on him once, told him to stretch his wings and fly for a while, but John couldn't leave him. As if somehow he could will things to get better, the angel stood like a gargoyle by Sherlock's side and refused to be budged. He sent a constant stream of comforting thoughts, but his Chosen no longer recognized it as him. They were bonded, so now his voice was no more than a manifestation of Sherlock's conscience. Agonizingly, he prayed that it would end. However, he knew what would come next, and the other part of him begged that it wouldn't stop. Selfishly, he wanted Sherlock to miss him.

He wanted to be important to him, to mean something. However, he realized how cruel those thoughts were and immediately stopped them. He didn't want his Chosen to suffer because of him. He realized he should stop feeling sorry for himself and chinned up, shoulders stiffening. This was okay. This was normal. It helped him feel more angelic if he could at least pretend his chest didn't squeeze painfully for most of the rest of that year whenever Sherlock's gaze slid over him without that once-vivid recognition. After his second year, Sherlock forgot John completely.

He also fell into a sulky sort of silence, personality changing abruptly at around the turn of his birthday. His cute, baby-like babbling stopped, and something changed in his general demeanour. Curiosity began to turn into drive. Mumblings turned into cohesive words, stringing together quickly and lucidly in the long silences of the house as at the age of three he began to read and understand. He would speak only when alone, and his appetite became sporadic. It was such an abrupt shift that it left the angel in some ways reeling. Fascinated, but horribly off-balance as his wings began to ripple with new colours and new experiences. Painted each day with rough outlines, oil-brush smears of the personality that  _made_  Sherlock Holmes. Mostly uncertain, expanding streaks of brilliant green and pulsating blue, just like the colours of the child's wickedly calculating eyes. John listened as the months passed and Sherlock's parents began to become concerned.

 

It seemed they just noticed now that their son was often reading more than just picture books, and didn't seem to speak unless spoken to. The angel, however, heard what the parents did not. The constant and coherent train of thought that stretched out in his little mind like the beginnings of a road map. It overwhelmed John, just how  _quick_ Sherlock, even as little more than a toddler, could leap from point A to point B. It was not that Sherlock  _couldn't_  talk to others, it was just that why should he  _bother_ when he knew what they were going to say? He realized that Father just may have given his Chosen the kind of mind-frame that could create a genius. Or a madman.

 

The latter frightened him, and when John thought this, he immediately wrapped a wing about Sherlock's tiny shoulders, keeping the sun off his back as it streams through the library windows. The toddler didn't notice; all he felt is the lessening of the burning sensation on the back of his neck. He continued to try and decipher the complicated Latin before him, the science textbook holding secrets that were as fascinating as somewhat confusing. By his fourth year, his family began to notice finally that Sherlock was different. Of course, Mycroft had known from the start. He was the one who spent the most time with Sherlock out of his family. Violet was away much of the time on business trips, and John still didn't even really know what Aldrin did for a living. He was a dark-haired, mysterious man who had cold blue eyes that were like a more melancholy version of his elder son's. John found that he liked Mycroft, despite the boy's thin patience with Sherlock's antics and his insistence for order. He made sure his little brother went outside at least once a day instead of staying cooped up in the drafty library, and the young angel found he was more of a parental figure than Sherlock's actual parents. Like he instinctively was aware that his little brother was at once gifted and impaired in his intellectual prowess, he could often tell when Sherlock wanted to be left alone, and when he wanted to be left alone but  _should_ be bothered to do otherwise.

In turn, Anthea occasionally would appear, giving John sage advice and, once in a while, counselling on his actions and emotions. More than anything though, John wished that Sherlock's parents would just come home and  _be_ with their children. Enjoy them and revel in the fact that it was obvious that both boys adored them wholeheartedly whenever they appeared. Lord knew the angel would give  _anything_  to see that kind of adoration light up in his Chosen's eyes. It was what many angels waited for in a sense when it came time for their charge to die. The moment to actually greet them and tell them how much they were loved. However, it seemed in their latest visitations, instead of focusing on the good things about them their Mother especially would go to the flaws.

“ _He never talks...”_ Violet often would complain, trying to get the toddler's attention or to at least get him focused on the various games she tried to play with him.

 Sherlock was often unamused with her attentions, turning surly if she tried to take away the book in his hands and becoming downright intolerable if she snapped at him. For someone who didn't speak aloud when others were around, he was surprisingly efficient at getting his emotions across when he needed to. His thoughts often wondered why she would try to make him play stupid things like  _peek-a-boo_ or solve brightly coloured puzzles, when all he wanted was to show her how he had managed to catch six different kinds of butterflies in the back yard and had spent the last week monitoring their eating habits. It was obvious by the way his hands tried to pull her in the direction of his room that he wanted to show her, painfully easy to see to John. However, Violet didn't seem to understand her son at all. Instead, she scowled at him and swatted those hands away, trying to get them to return to the latest game: a jack-in-the-box. John caught the thought, running clear and venomous in his mind. It was flung at his Mother like a whip, and made the angel blink in surprise at its unusually sharp tone. If Sherlock was more vocal, it might've been a shout.

_I'm not an idiot!_

 

The angel watched with mixed heaviness and sadness, because of course Violet couldn't hear her son's thoughts. Instead, she continued to try, crooning at him gently for about twenty minutes longer before she sighed sharply and threw up her hands in consternation. Sherlock, bless his little heart, took this as his cue to reach for another book. He became absorbed once more in the world of animals and life outside quickly, and he didn't hear his Mother in the kitchen speaking in low tones with his Father.

 “ _....I'm worried about him.... not responsive.....all the specialists say.....Even Mycroft wasn't like this.....”_

 John felt his stomach twisting in knots as he listened for his Chosen to the heated words said under hushed breath, wanting to pull Sherlock closer and protect him from their implications. He reached out and stroked those dark curls lightly, pulling at the ends, even though he knew the child under his hands won't feel it. Sherlock was warm. Alive and warm, unlike John. So full of energy and burning synapses and a mind that didn't shut down even in his deepest dreams. He was not unhappy, and the angel knew the little kid was still too young to realize that he was acting differently from others. In his innocence, he believed that Mycroft has this kind of buzzing between his ears, and so does his Mother and Father. Maybe, to a certain extent they do, too. But soon, he would grow and realize it was not the same and it never would be. John held Sherlock then tightly, closing his eyes and wishing that his parents could see his tiny lips moving, noiselessly forming the words that spring to life on the page and the spark of intelligence in his eyes.

 No.

Sherlock was most definitely  _not_ slow, as his Mother was fearing. In fact, it was ridiculous to even  _think_ he was. She had only to come in now and seen him reading a book that most first graders would not be able to comprehend, and John wanted suddenly nothing more than to fly over and strangle the woman, dragging her here so she could  _see._ Then, he felt a surge of resentment, an unfamiliar feeling that tasted sour in his mouth and made him scowl. It was an uncomfortable emotion, one that made him almost wonder where it came from, as he had never heard of an angel being resentful before. Yet, John often had a lot of feelings that he didn't think his brothers and sisters had......

Or maybe they just hid it better.

_**Hell,**_ He thought, and shivered at the realization he just cursed and hardly noticed. **_Maybe I'm flawed. Maybe_** ** _I'm_** ** _the one that's broken, maybe I'm affecting Sherlock because I'm not..... Right...._**

For the first time, a shadow of fear crossed his features. The truth was, he didn't see much  _wrong_ with his Chosen. In his eyes, he was perfect, despite his broken traits. His oddness. He pitied his Mother in that moment as he planted a kiss on the child's forehead, resting his chin atop of him and eyes fluttering closed in contentment.

_It's a shame you can't see, because he's beautiful._

It was.  Being inside Sherlock's mind was like drinking an addictive poison. Half the time, it threatened to kill you with its whirring mechanics, but the high one could get just from following each puzzle to its end, to solving each thread was sweeter than honey. It made John dizzy just being around such a mind, let alone being connected to it constantly. He felt like a guilty liar for even  _thinking_ he could justify his anger at Violet, but it helped him calm down, helped his breathing slow and his fists to unclench. He was not sure when he started to get angry at mere humans, but John didn't like the sensation and wished it would stop. He was becoming more and more aware his emotions were changing, and part of him wanted to speak with his Father. Yet, a deeper part of him urged him to keep it a secret, some dark shadow in his head that he felt compelled to listen to. He wondered if he is going insane.

....Could angels go insane?

Was that even possible?

It felt like it, sometimes.....

 

As if responding automatically to the soothing emotions that flooded him from his angel, Sherlock relaxed slightly in his posture. He smiled in his childlike way as he successfully understood another paragraph of his book, triumph etched in his baby-like features both at once round and clever. Even though he didn’t know John any more, he still responded to his touch and his feelings. Connected, intertwined almost like one living organism.  No. His Chosen wasn't slow. Sherlock was  _faster_  than the rest of the world around him. Too fast. An indistinct blur surrounded by everyday movement. A race car among wagons. And, like a car, if he wasn't careful, he was going to crash and burn before he even really got started. John would be there though, and he would stop him. He was sure of it, his own wings would be air bags if they had to be, his body a shield from all harm. He promised the child this, even though he knew Sherlock didn't hear.

He promised that this time, he wouldn't break his vow. 


	4. Pain In Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song is my immortal by Evanescence.
> 
> It's lyrics best describe Anthea in this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy! <3
> 
> Many thanks to Pigfarts23 for editing ^_^

 

 

 

_When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears_

_When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears_

_And I held your hand through all of these years_

_But you still have_

_All of me_

 

 

 

 

“I can't be certain without testing of course, but I am fairly certain your son is struggling with a certain form of sociopathy.”

 

The middle-aged psychologist; a Mrs. Shriedner by name, stated this two weeks after Sherlock's fifth birthday. John remembered it upon reflection, as the year his Chosen was given his first violin, a present from his Father. The first Christmas that Sherlock had uttered more than just a few words at his parents, eyes wide as he took the instrument in his hands and told them how thankful he was, even if he had guessed the nature of their gift months before. Violet had nearly fallen out of her chair at not only the sound of his voice, but the seriousness in the child's tone. Like he was vowing to go off and join the war effort instead of thanking his parents for a simple present. Then Aldrin, also not usually one to speak, had told Sherlock that it was his pleasure with equal solemnity and Mycroft had sniggered a little into his hot chocolate, his Mother's expression a mix of shock and horror as much as happiness.

However, that joy soon faded, as Sherlock refused to offer up any more words. When he  _did_ speak, it was usually to antagonize, whether intentionally or unintentionally. There was a sharpness in his tone that seemed to bring out the worst in his Mother, and the child soon learned that even though his weapon of a sharp tongue was rough sometimes, it could be brutally effective when he chose to use it. She especially seemed to hate the habit Sherlock was quickly developing of  _seeing_  things normal people shouldn't, as if it were something he could control. Observant to the point of borderline obsession, John rapidly found that the once childlike mind connection to his own was building itself the base-boards of a castle; the mortar was information, the brick, observations and answers. Of course, the angel didn't really mind, as it was still an open place, though granted, occasionally he was nearly flattened by the speed of which the thoughts spun all around him, if he was not careful. Navigating through Sherlock's head was often just as dangerous as any physical situation.

 And there were many of those.

 With his gift of mobility that he gained at a young age, Sherlock now seemed to be forever dangling from high places precariously. He found perches that should never be perches, ledges that were not meant to house a rapidly growing boy, and slowly began to drive John absolutely insane with paranoia and visions of him cracking his head open on the ground below.

 As it turned out, he wasn't the only one.

Mycroft, as he got older began to assume the parental position more and more, often screaming after his younger brother when he caught him dangling upside down in the branches of the oak in the gardens, or climbing the bookshelf to reach a higher-up text. As if sensing how his deductions made people uncomfortable, Sherlock would often launch into a rapid-fire explanation of exactly everything Mycroft had done that day often in an attempt to distract him, to keep him from pulling his younger brother down from whatever high place he had managed to scramble into. After one such instance where Sherlock was found dangling by one hand from the highest tree in the entire backyard (John at the time flying about him in a tizzy, mentally calculating how to keep the fall from killing him without it being obvious that he had interfered) that Mycroft had become fed up.

 It happened in the span of a second, and John's only warning was Anthea's sudden materialization, her features coiled and tense as she whispered to her Chosen, trying to rub soothing circles into his back. Her voice was steady, but it held a commanding weight to it that hung heavy in her tone.

  
  


“My.....  _don't....._ ”

 

Apparently though, her gentle nudging would not halt the boy. He erupted like a whip cracking loud in the air.

 

“You're such a  _brat!_ ” He roared, cutting his little brother off with a snarling shout that seemed to threaten to bring the house down around them with the amount of venom it held.

 

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut, eyes widening as he was suddenly put under the full brunt of Mycroft's temper, something that made John's mouth fall open and his wings freeze mid-stretch from their lazy movements. The normally quiet eleven year old was suddenly and viciously furious, so much so that his hands were shaking. Sherlock noticed it, of course he did, and he did the one thing that if possible made the situation worse. Recovering from his shock, the little boy looked innocently up at his brother, all dark curls and cherubic features and pale skin. His green eyes danced for a moment in consideration of what he could do in reaction to Mycroft's outburst, and quickly discarded foolish things like crying or apologizing.

No.

Because this was a new expression on his elder brother's face, and Sherlock was a blooming little scientist. He had carefully catalogued most of his brother's emotions, but this was a rare and opportune chance to learn something  _new._  All of this flashed in his head faster than John could catch up with, and he had just enough time to throw a panicked thought of caution towards the child before he acted upon his desires.

Sherlock  _smirked._ Totally unrepentant. One hundred percent sure to make sure the light from the back door caught his eyes, making them glitter with mockery.

An obvious bait.

But Mycroft was too mad to notice.

 

Aldrin Holmes came home from his job just in time to hear Sherlock let out a horrified shriek as his elder brother lunged at him, tackling him to the ground in the beginnings of a brawl. Neither of the angels, despite how hard they tugged on their mental connections or tried to physically separate them could stop the two brothers as they beat at each other, partly because to do so might hurt the other inadvertently. Sherlock used his fists and speed like he instinctively knew they would be his only advantage, and Mycroft used in turn his overwhelming size and strength. The two like colliding boulders smashed into the edge of the coffee table, sending a mug shattering to the floor into a million crystalline pieces. John winced as he feels a ghost of pain cross his lip- Sherlock had bitten down hard enough on his own upon impact that he had made it break and bleed- while Anthea yelped and rubbed at her scalp as Mycroft growled in pain on the floor because his younger brother was digging his fingers into his ginger-brown curls and tugging- and then they were both frozen as a deep voice that was very rarely used or raised in any kind of way barked over their heads.

 

“ _Boys.”_

 

Immediately, both children stopped.

Like wind-up toys that have run out of steam, their muscles paused in mid-strike, anger dying with the prospect of the long shadow cast over them from the edge of the kitchen. Mycroft went a white, and Sherlock's new-found smirk was quickly stored away in the baseboards of his 'Mind-Palace' for later evaluation. Then, like two identical magnetic charges, they separated, backing away to their respective sides of the room as Aldrin watched them both with piercingly cool eyes. Behind him, Sherridan was like a pillar of fire, giving away their Father's anger by the twitching along the edge of her wings; rapier-like, a shade of silver that in some lights looked muted, and in others shone metallically and threatened to cut you in half. Now they glittered like burning coals.

Aldrin did not shout; that was not the Holmes' way. Instead, he was deathly silent, eyes flicking in observation of the scene before him even as he clasped his hands in thought behind his back. John saw how Mycroft attempted to straighten himself out, compose the anger that had come across him so abruptly and smooth out the lines of his school blazer. Fighting in his uniform, that would not be a point on his side. That and he was supposed to be the older brother, even if Sherlock did intentionally provoke him. As if sensing he wouldn't be in as much trouble as he had initially feared, Sherlock sat up, wiping away the blood from his lip with a darting of his tongue. He had a tear in his own clothes at the shoulder, but that was from tree climbing, and not fighting. All in all, he was mostly unhurt, something John personally thought at once a blessing and an annoyance.

The least Mycroft could have done was give him a bit of a wallop so he'd maybe think twice before dangling himself from high places and driving John over the edge with panic.

 

“Father...” The elder Holmes started uncomfortably, sounding once more like an adult trapped in a child's body as he slowly came forward and then balked.

  
  


Behind him Anthea was less composed, her wing-tips quivered minutely and her eyes wide. John frowned, confused as to why the angel was so  _afraid._ Whatever was running through Mycroft's head at the moment was obviously enough to make his Guardian on edge for danger. Her breaths had become quiet but coiled intakes, and she had assumed a decidedly defensive position, her wings spread and arms up like a trained fighter. Except it was not around her Chosen.

 

Instead, it was in front of Sherlock and John himself.

 Aldrin's voice was sharp in the quiet. It carried an unbreakable weight behind it that reminded John of a military captain's tone. He had met a few in Heaven, usually brusque, bellowing people with a no nonsense sort of attitude. He had usually gotten on with them well, so long as they weren't peeved.

 

“Mycroft. Come. Here.”

 

Like a puppet cut from his strings, the older boy was expressionless and slow as he came forward, eyes dark as he stood directly in front of his Father and waited for whatever punishment he expected. Yet Anthea's gaze was not focused on Aldrin. Her eyes were pinned on the angel behind him that showed no sign of anger, and no sign of movement.

Her posture screamed attack though, and John trusted her.

He shifted into defence in front of Mycroft, surprising the angel into flashing one of her rare smiles, despite it being laced with an ingrained fear that drifted just under her mask of ice. 

Mycroft jutted his chin up, eyes unreadable. However, his words spoke louder than his posture as he came again a few feet forward.

 

“It was my fault. I lost my temper and shouldn't have. I apologize.”

 

Aldrin looked at his son for a few minutes in silence, staring down at him with one brow raised as if he was surprised that his son would immediately take the blame. His voice was calm and measured, but it held a heat behind it as a hand clapped down on Mycroft's shoulder lightly. Anthea tensed, and John wondered if he’d been more oblivious than he realized. Even though he was fairly new to Earth, he was well aware that sometimes Humans hurt other Humans. Sometimes even their own children. It had been one of the hardest lessons he had to learn in Heaven, mostly because he couldn't comprehend wanting to hurt your own flesh and blood. He'd never strike Harry or any other angel for that matter unless they were attacking Sherlock, and an angel that had not only the twisted mind-frame but the  _power_ to resist Father's rules and attack a Human was rare indeed. Still, he hadn't thought the quiet man that spent most of his time bending over a newspaper and drinking coffee when he was home would be capable of such brutality. It seemed, as well, that nothing other than a stern talking to was about to happen, by the way that their Father launched into a lecture about the state of Mycroft's school blazer that was cutting but to be expected.

 By all accounts, the tension that rises in the air should not exist.

Yet it did, and it made John's muscles shake with unrelieved tension. In return, Sherlock had gone still except for his eyes, flicking over the scene and making rapid calculations about both himself and his brother. The angel could hear him, like a tiny drabbling voice inside his own mind driving from one point to another with overwhelming purpose.

 

_Mycroft's breathing: harsh, pupils dilated; fear reaction._

_Father shows no sign of violent outburst, so fear is psychological._

 

John was surprised that inside Sherlock's mind, there is the briefest flash of relief. Like cold water, it was an analysis a little child should not be making, and most certainly should not be soothing himself with. His angel, for the first time, realized there is a problem with Sherlock's intelligence.

Something distressing.

 He was...... losing innocence at an alarming rate because of it.

 Aldrin lectured Mycroft for a good, long while. However, even his seemingly effortless ability to be both eloquent, and, at the same time, endless in conversation has to come to an end. The entire time, Anthea's emotions rolld onto her Chosen, and it was a wonder the boy could stand at all or respond properly when his Father patted him on the back and said

 

“Off to your room. And don't think I won't tell your Mother.”

 

Numbly, Mycroft nodded. As if this was the least of his concerns. Which for him, John supposed it is. When an angel was in charge of the emotional balance between the Bond, sometimes the Human found it increasingly frustrating that they could not control how they felt. Often, it manifested itself in ways like anger management issues, depression and, in rare instances, bipolar disorder if it was an issue that was left alone for too long. John watched the older boy stumble, almost  _flee_ upstairs to his bedroom, his palms clenching in cold sweat as he willed his bones to relax.

 To slump into jelly.

Anthea rocked on her heels for a moment, sparing a panicked look at John and back to Sherridan. Her dark eyes glittered carefully, and he saw her limbs tremble, torn between staying and running to her Chosen. Eventually, the all powerful longing called to her, and she turned her back on the other angel for a split second to grip John's upper arm.

The physical contact made him shudder instinctively.

Only Father had ever touched him like that before.

It made his skin tingle, crackle with the suppressed electrical energy of two beings made entirely of light meeting.

Hurt.

 

“Get him to his room.” Is all she said, her voice hissing the words like a desperate plea.

 

All John could manage to reply with was a nod.

She vanished with a flicker before his eyes, turning invisible like he had seen her do so many times before. Leaving him to calm himself or lick her proverbial wounds or something. John isn't sure what'd exactly happened, but he took her advice immediately and gently began nudging Sherlock's thoughts towards his bedroom. It didn't take much; the boy had already become bored sitting in the corner, and he rose easily. Without a word, he passed by his Father like he wasn’t even there, dark curls bouncing in his usual silent way. Normally, Aldrin would leave his son alone, but John froze and felt an unfamiliar lump in his chest when Sherlock's Father called out to him.

 

“Sherlock....”

 

He risked a glance at the fire-haired angel behind him, like a ghostly maiden in a sparkling blue dress that was at once beautiful as it was elusive. There was no expression on Sherridan's face, but she tilted her head almost thoughtfully at him when he stared at her with baited breath, clear blue eyes like reflective pools in which John could see how small and terrified he looked. Not like a protector at all. He was acutely aware of how fragile his wings wee compared to hers, how much naïveté about the world shone in his own irises. He didn't understand Human emotions but liked them, craved Sherlock's recognition almost as much as he fervently prayed that nothing so serious would happen, that his Chosen would meet him too early. He was an infant, a child as much as the darkly-curled boy beside him that turned to look at his Father with wide, trusting eyes.

How could he Protect him if something happened?

Could he dare call himself a Guardian Angel when he could barely stop his wings from trembling like a Newborn's when Sherridan flicked her gaze to Sherlock?

Those eyes seemed to silently demand this, though Sherridan spoke no words aloud.

 Aldrin's voice wasn't angry, but it held a certain wry tone to it.

 

“Next time.... Try not to provoke your brother so. I hate to say it but......He's.... fragile right now at this age. And....  _try_ to talk once in a while? Please?”

 

In response, Sherlock blinked his understanding, storing away in his head the image of his Father's smile inside his Mind-Palace. He was also mentally cataloguing how hard his heart was beating, and frowned a little because he did not understand why he was experiencing panic; however, it was mild and he could tightly control it, but it was still there.  

Something was …. off at the feeling somehow.

 He couldn't have known how long John just sat by his bedside later on, stroking his curls away from his eyes when the wind through his window blew.

Thinking and worrying.

Wondering why it felt like Sherridan was at once dangerous and yet at the same time..... trustworthy. Considering Anthea's reaction in his thoughts, he thought it would be best to avoid her on principle.

He didn't dare ask. From the angel's reaction today, it was obvious there was an unspoken fear that simply ran too deep to intrude upon.

One that did not run to Aldrin, only his angel.

Curious and strange.

 

That night, the little boy was woken up by Mycroft's screams.

They rang out across the hall, waking Violet from her slumber and making her rub her eyes tiredly and groan.

Another nightmare.

Anthea's doing undoubtedly.

 

Sherlock's green eyes glowed in the moonlight as he lay awake, listening to his older brother attempting to muffle his sobs in the covers of his bed. His childlike persona shifted slightly again, and John was woken by the strange feeling of his wings shifting colours again. Adding to the blue and green streaks were a tone of something darker. More sombre. A deep navy shade that spoke of determination and seriousness.

All adult colours.

The angel listened to Anthea's soft noises of comfort, even as she cried herself. John could imagine her stroking his head gently, holding his hand and willing in vain that he felt her presence.

He imagined the guilt that she must be feeling and his stomach turned painfully, because he had felt it before.

It was hard controlling your emotions, but even harder was to keep them from effecting the person you were connected with.

Sherlock's sharp temper wasn't completely his fault.....

The drawback to being connected so intimately.

 John listened to his Chosen make a promise in his head. Recording it in the Mind-Palace, writing it in the door with engraving tools.

He would do his utmost to make Mycroft seem perfect, if only in comparison to him.

That way he wouldn't get yelled at, and wouldn't cry.

Because if Mycroft was afraid of being told off and Sherlock wasn't, then he could handle it better.

Simple logic.

 And so, two weeks after his fifth birthday, Sherlock Holmes was diagnosed as a sociopath. This was after he brought dead birds into the house and stored them in the fridge for experimentation, used his Mother's favourite notebooks for calculations, and had nearly driven the neighbour mad because he had stolen her cat for studying.

Among other things.

Not to mention the fact that he still barely ever chose to speak.

John's Chosen took the diagnosis, filing it away in his mind and memorizing the title like it was a badge of highest honour.

His Mother wept.

His Father stroked a hand through his dark curls soothingly, as if Sherlock would be scared by something like a diagnosis.

 Mycroft looked at his younger brother and merely shrugged, eyes cool.

He had been diagnosed a year ago with anxiety issues and chronic depression.

Since then, he had retreated into himself, becoming a wall of ice.

Anthea as well rarely appeared physically any more. She became a ghost, as frigid as her Human.

John saw her and sometimes felt a pang of pity.

How could an angel live with themselves when the person they wanted to protect hurt because of them?

When they were plagued by dreams that weren't even theirs?

Except for those rare moments when he thawed for his little brother, and told him with the frank honesty of an older brother that he was a Holmes, so that being different was a good thing.

Though John was sure Sherlock would never admit it, he didn't climb any trees that day specifically to thank his brother for that. In his own awkward way, he  _did_ care.

The Mind-Palace grew, becoming more than just an outline. It became a solid force, arcing toward the imagined sky and waving proud banners.

Sometimes, John would disappear for hours inside. Always creeping and quiet, so Sherlock wouldn't notice, and always when he was asleep. It was a warm sort of place, and his favourite room was the Memory Room.

There he could watch old scenes from his Chosen's point of view, and buried deep in the back somewhere he could pull out the days when Sherlock could see him.

It made John happy, watching those clips.

Those frayed and fading images as he would lie curled up in the space inside Sherlock's head. The no-man's land of pure feeling and touch and auditory reflection that was like swimming inside a lake of translucent thought.

 And a selfish part of him wished very,  _very_ deeply he could have those days back.

In the deepest realms of his black thoughts, the ones that he ignored and hoped wouldn't grow, John wished he could be Human.

Just for a day....

Just for a moment so he could  _meet_ him.

 _See_ the light of recognition burn in those irises. 

 _Touch_ that small hand and pull  _him_ along for a change, easing the loneliness that sometimes pulled at Sherlock's chest and made him gloomy and sulky. Show him he wasn't alone.

Prove to John that  _he_ was not alone either.

Preserve the child in him, because the world was such a frightening place and school was looming on the horizon and he had  _seen_ the way Mycroft sometimes came home.

Completely cynical and drained.

Frustrated and looking  _older._

 He wished he could be good.

Could be better and say watching Sherlock was enough for him.

If he ignored those black feelings, it was.

Except that was the thing about those thoughts, they pulled at him. Leaped upon him in unexpected moments and make his heart pound and his limbs tremble with their power.

One day, John feared he would not be able to fight back....

 


	5. The Loneliness Of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been awhile, this chapter took work. :3
> 
> song is terrible things by mayday parade.  
> It fit well I thought......
> 
> Please tell me what you think so far via comment, and if kudos are your thing that wouldn't hurt either :)
> 
> <3 thanks so much~!
> 
> Many thanks to Pigfarts23 for editing :3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Now son, I'm only telling you this..._

_Because life, can do terrible things_

_You'll learn, one day, I'll hope and I'll pray_

_That God, shows you differently_

_So don't fall in love, there's just too much to lose_

_If given the choice, then, I'm begging you, choose_

_To walk away, walk away, don't let her get you._

_can't bear to see the same happen to you._

 

 

 

 

God visited John the day before Sherlock's first week of school. True to his nature, he chose to do it in a way that was at once ironic as it was slightly amusing. 

The Holmses' had a family tradition of sorts; or rather a habit. Violet had grown up in a Christian household, and though she grew up with no real religious ties, she insisted that a once a year visit to a mass would certainly do no harm. Aldrin had no particular issue with it, and it gave the rare excuse for the entire family to go out and do something together, something that was rare and welcomed by the boys despite their grumblings. Or rather, Sherlock's grumbling. Not only was he severely disinterested with the idea of going to school (he actually had voiced his opinion, stating over his bowl of Cheerios that his Mother had insisted he eat that he felt it was a waste of time and effort.) but the little black suit he was forced to wear into the stained-glass church was at once uncomfortable as it was restrictive. His Mother felt that perhaps if nothing else helped, an introduction to religion might quell some of the restless energy that her youngest son seemed to possess. Though this of course was ridiculous, John was surprised to find it seemed to do something to Mycroft. The boy relaxed ever so slightly when crossing the churches' threshold, and loosened his tie in a rare display of peace. It was understandable though when the angel looked over at Anthea. She had a rare smile on her face, and though she of course spent most of the time at least partially invisible, the first thing she did was fly up to the wide rafters of the church and seat herself among other Guardians that had already arrived with their Chosen. Church for an angel was a place for exchanging information, catching up with brothers and sisters in the neighbourhood. Though most of the time solidarity was an angel's preferred state of being, once in a while comradeship was appreciated, and even welcomed, if it meant getting to brush wings with a fellow Newborn and talking about issues or progress, or seeking advice from an elder. He saw as well that when Anthea wasn't on the defensive she was actually incredibly charming; amicable even. She effortlessly mingled with other angels, making small talk and artfully turning discussion in a matter of business. She gathered tidbits of knowledge and support and stored them away, fluttering back and forth with small beats of her wings and using the perfect combination of warmth and distance.

Looking at her weaving in and out of the masses of wings and bare bodies, of clothes and powerful primary feathers, it was like looking up and seeing a roost of impossibly coloured birds all greeting one another, creating a chatter that only the inhuman could hear.

 Anthea was in her element here, a master at public affairs.

 John, in contrast shifted uncomfortably behind the pew that each of them filed into, the smell of scented candles and perfumed oils hanging on his tongue and making his Chosen wrinkle his nose and inhale in curiosity as well as distaste. Sherlock refused to sit demurely in his part of the pew, instead kneeling in his seat so that his knees took the brunt of his weight and looking around, the stained glass sending reflective shards of colour scattering across his pale skin in dazzling hues of pink, blue and gold. His green eyes added to the mix, flashing with a light of their own as he absorbed the pictures of saints, took in the heavy tapestries depicting the crucifixion and rapture (though John found it amusing that in it Jesus was white and blonde, horrendously inaccurate) and catalogued the men in white robes at the front of the shining, golden altar. However it was when Sherlock opened his mouth, about to proclaim loudly to the world how the woman in the next pew was a serial adulteress (not wearing wedding ring, but a tan line from where it should be. Lip-stick freshly applied and hair done nicely, but only at a surface-value. Skin shows signs of taking the brunt of alcoholism. So love affair gone wrong most likely..... unsatisfied with marriage) that Mycroft shot a hand out and rested it on his younger brother's shoulder. Fixing him with a perfectly blue stare, his elder brother, for the first time, stopped him from making a deduction, halting him right in his tracks before he had even gotten the chance to get on a roll. Sherlock glared at him at first, mouth opening to protest at the silencing, except that a thought flashes in the small boy's mind that made John blink in surprise at the insight of it.

 …..He hadn't voiced what he knew, what he had seen.... Yet Mycroft's eyes were on the woman, just as his were.....

That meant Mycroft saw too.....

Which meant his brother could  _see_ things like he could.......

 The realization made Sherlock's eyes widen, and his brother saw it and his eyebrows lowered in both annoyance that his little secret was given away as well as a strange sort of shame that his little brother couldn't place. The little boy recorded the myriad of emotions that he saw, all in still-life pictures like a polaroid camera and concluded something.

It was extremely unfair, cruel even, that up to this point his older brother had made him learn all of the tricks of his skill on his  _own._

 John groaned as his Chosen's face compiled into a look of sulking fury. Mycroft looked at the expression and read it completely, and a rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was the same smirk that Sherlock had worn when he had experimented in pushing his brother into a row, and his younger brother's scowl deepened. John laughed before he can stop himself, and was embarrassed when a few faces peer down curiously at him from the rafters. A few murmured and chuckled, and his flush darkened as he felt their amusement.

He also noticed, then, the reluctant suspicion.

Not directed at him.

 The eyes glanced uneasily at the two angels that were the only ones besides John still on the ground. Rupert and Sherridan seemed to take no notice of the angels above them, sitting in the back in a pew empty of even human life. The dark-haired angel had his legs propped up perhaps somewhat rudely on the next pew over, one arm lazily stretched along the back of the seat, just brushing an inch from the fire-haired angel's right wing. She sat primly and properly, staring blankly into space like usual, giving John the impression she was staring  _through_ things instead of at them. Their reflective quality only flashed the barest degree when John saw Rupert gently weave a hand in hers, their knuckles tightening over one another's. A few angels muttered darkly at the contact, and feathers rippled in agitation. John drew in a breath at the intimate expression as he saw the angel's fingers draw slow circles around hers, the gesture of affection a rare sight among angels. He noticed, for just a moment, something in Sherridan's eyes that he did not recognize, but looked pained.

Then it was back to a wall of unreadable blankness.

 It's only for a few seconds, but it spoke deeply about Violet and Aldrin's bond themselves.

 Angels were incapable of feeling that kind of love on their own. It was a human emotion, one born from the good side of lust and the kind of happiness that comes from a close and personal relationship with another soul. John learned in his training very early on that an angel simply wasn't designed to relate to anyone else other than their Chosen at more than a friendly level, and frankly the idea of that kind of intense longing for another being frightened him as much as it intrigued. As a result, angels never married or 'coupled up' like Humans did. It just wasn't their way. Father had once tried to make angels more Human, but with their level of potentially destructive power, he soon learned that with this creation, that kind of freedom was just safer not to have. Sometimes to protect the things you love, you had to take certain things away from them. So he gave angels love, but only general love, familial love, and the strange and compelling love that comes from a Bond with a Human.

 So the fact that Violet and Aldrin loved each other enough that it was compelling their angels to act in a way that was not in their basic biological hard-drive was something exceedingly rare and special. It felt like such a private thing that John looked down and away at his hands, wondering at the dull ache in his chest that blossomed outwards from his sternum. He didn't understand why seeing that kind of contact made him feel so happy...... and yet infinitely lonely deep inside. The sensation was strange and bitter on his tongue, and he didn't like it. He wanted to spit the unfamiliar feeling out onto the ground, but he didn't even know what it's called. A part of John knows that angels are not supposed to feel certain Human emotions, jealousy being one of them. They are not supposed to think in the same way a Human does. He is not supposed to want a hand to hold, or a cheek to brush with a kiss.

 It was not his place to long for those things, so he drowned the thoughts in Sherlock's roaring mental faculties. Dove head-first into a babbling rant that the little boy is creating to ease his boredom as the priest gestures for the organ player to begin her mournful playing of  _Worthy is the Lamb._

Lately, his Chosen has become fascinated by bees.

He went over the long patters of their mating dances in his head, legs tucked up under his chin and hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes closed. To a casual observer, it might look like the little boy was praying, but John could hear the way his thoughts spun outwards and upwards. They went from dancing to twirling, which brought Sherlock to how the angle of a coin glinted when you spun it on end, like a knife-point. That brought him to the various sharpness of knives, and which were best suited to cutting instead of chopping, paring as opposed to mincing. Then it inevitably went to the subject of a knife's killing efficiency. Not as good as a gun, but could be obtained from virtually anywhere, and deadly accurate if in the hands of someone trained. It could torture, rend flesh from bones, and was a universal symbol of edged weaponry.

John felt himself swallow as Sherlock's thoughts mulled over these thoughts, and by the conclusion the boy reached. That he needed more information, and that he knew little of knife-inflicted wounds. Knew little of wounds and murders in general actually. The thought made him scowl, and shoot a dark look at his Mother. She had managed so far to keep Sherlock away from the worst of the library's collection, crime and law books prohibited and placed on the highest and most precarious shelves.

Not that it had stopped the boy from trying, but Mycroft had always caught him in time. 

The coddling cushion his parents wrapped around him infuriated Sherlock, because how was he supposed to  _learn_ if he never was allowed out of sight? How could he  _solve_ if he had to hold someone's hand while doing it? What was the point of keeping him stifled in a church pew, listening to the words of a dusty book that he had read ages ago and concluded was just the wild fantasy of man?

John wondered what Sherlock would do suddenly, if he saw the supposed 'fantasy' that existed all around him, fluttering their wings and leaning into their hands and listening enraptured to the word of their Father? What would he say to the angel who looked on and saw into his mind and loved to float in it, ride the crashing roller-coaster of his thoughts until it threatened to drown him?

He knew it would astound him, fascinate him to no end, and, just for a moment, he wished he could  _see_ Sherlock's face blank with shock at being _wrong._

He could imagine those silver-blue irises alighting in utter wonder, could imagine that rare half-smile would glow in childish amazement. John would do anything to have that expression lighting up because of something he did. He was so thankful to be a Guardian, that wasn't the issue. John would have accepted this as his life even if he had to give up his wings, because he lived for each morning when he saw Sherlock grow a little taller, become a little more aware and a little more  _Human._ An odd, unique being, but gloriously alive and a living firework that shot off colours of dazzling green and silver.

Special and precious.

He loved Sherlock the way an angel should.... 

It was just that sometimes...... he just wanted to  _know_ that he was more than just a shadow, more than just a ghost, a hidden breath stolen in the silence of a child's dreams. He longed to  _become_ more, to  _help_ Sherlock grow.

Or at least help him stay fascinated by the world around him.

 Because as the sun broke through the clouds outside and lit the interior of the entire church on fire for just a moment in a swathe of glassy colour, the world seemed like a truly beautiful, inspiring, _God_ _ly_ place.

For just a second Sherlock's thoughts stopped, lost in awe as he looked up at the rafters, eyes transfixed above at the lights painting everything into a rainbow.

He couldn't have known, but many angels waved at him, greeted his blank gaze with laughter and warm smiles.

They heard John's thoughts, felt what he felt.

The love that consumed him, they reflected his emotions by launching themselves like massive winged birds and soaring in and out of the rafters, taking to flight just as the church bells sounded like mighty gongs overhead, signalling the end of mass.

Marking a moment in which little Sherlock Holmes was rendered absolutely speechless as his mind recorded the entire image and stored it away, labelling it for further evaluation.

Maybe, the child conceded, there was a God after all.

 Unlikely, but one could never fully discount evidence. As far as the child was concerned, the memory warranted a second reconsideration.

John tried not to chuckle at that, and failed.

He left the church smiling, squinting up into the sunlight even as Sherlock tore out of the church, throwing his jacket to the ground to be soiled by mud and grass and causing his Mother to scold him vehemently.

 Yes, definitely a day of miracles indeed.

He followed his Chosen as he ran to the park across the street, tugging at Mycroft's sleeve insistently even while charging towards the slide.

Every bit a little child.

Though in his head he was deducing the manufacturing company that had made the structure, cataloguing the workers and their poor attention to safety guidelines.

Ever a child, but ever Sherlock.

That was when he heard the cheeky, small voice.

He knew right away it was addressing him, because John had never heard such a young child sound so unwaveringly calm.

Eeriely calm.

Bright, loving.

That, and it was addressed to  _him,_  and only to  _him._

 

“'Scuse me sir, can I ask for some of your time?”

 

Slowly, spine unstiffening after the initial shock, John smiled at the young strawberry blonde child smiling up at him sweetly with huge eyes partially hidden by bangs. Those freckled cheeks dimpled innocently enough, but there was no childish innocence in the way his Father's violet-blue eyes glittered with amusement. The oversized jacket dwarfed his already small frame, and if the angel had to guess, he guessed the boy had the appearance of an eight-year old.

There was no mistaking who it was though.

Not even a chance.

John rolled his eyes and laughed.

 

“Father, what are you doing here?”

 

"Well, this  _is_ a church."

 

"Bollocks. You hate churches. Too stuffy for your tastes."

 

Instead of telling him outright, God's answering grin was impish, and he unabashedly took John's hand like a little boy and pulled him towards the swings. His grip was warm, but the angel knew that no one could see them, even as he was lead willingly along, his feet kicking up sand as they entered the playground. The swings were abandoned, disregarded in favour of the climbing bars of the jungle gym. Sherlock was dangling from one now upside down, curls hanging in the air and swaying hazardously over the dirty sand. Mycroft was below him, scowling and making sure he had someone to land on if he should fall.

For a moment, John let the elder Holmes take charge of Sherlock's well-fare as he turned to the little boy who jumped up onto the swing excitedly, pumping his legs forward and scrambling for purchase so that the swing began to rock back and forth. Once he gained momentum, he propelled himself by leaning forwards and back, gaining speed and height even as John sat on his swing and watched him, half amused and half disbelieving.

 

“So…you... came so you could swing?”

 

Between swings, his Father giggled childishly, a free sort of smile on his face seeming to light up his entire figure. When a flock of birds passed, they chirped excitedly, and God waved at them amicably and shouted “Pleasure to see you all again!” Like they were old friends.

  
  


He then turned to John, slowing his swing so he can arch one eyebrow and make himself look decidedly older in the sarcastic way he holds himself.

  
  


“Yes, obviously. Because I can't just  _conjure_ up swing-sets when I feel like it.”

 

The way he spoke about his omnipresent powers was casual, but there was a crackling behind it that reminded the angel gently that his Father could conjure up a lot more than just swing-sets. He swallowed and decided to soften his sharp tone, waiting patiently as God got around to telling him why he had decided to just up and visit.

 

After a moment, the child sighed and rubbed at his eyes in a very adult-like way, his irises darkening in mild worry that settled in his mouth, making the dimples vanish for just an instant. His hands tightened on the chains of the swing, and John prepares himself for something truly awful, like the end of the world.

If God was concerned, it must be a problem.

 

“.....Are you..... unhappy John?”

 

The angel blinked in surprise, lips parting as an instinctive “No!” erupted from his chest at even the thought of being unhappy with his job. At his Father's look, he flushed and hastened to continue, realizing he was babbling slightly.

“I mean, I-I like looking after Sherlock..... and his family is nice enough I guess.... the job's never boring....?”

 

He said the last part almost hopefully, as if this was somehow the answer his Father wanted. Anything to keep him here; the thought of leaving his Chosen made him panic and sent irrational fear shooting down his spine. God held out a steadying hand, cutting him off with a comforting touch.

 

“Relax, John. It was just a question. Nothing more. I have no plans to take you away.”

 

The angel released the tension from his shoulders obediently, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes in relief. When he opened them again, confusion crept into his tone. His eyes clouded with it in question.

“Then.... why?”

 

As if in answer, God's eyes flicked to the older boy looking after his Chosen, or rather at his angel. Anthea stood off to the side, watching the children with silent affection and protectiveness. John could vaguely make out the conversation the boys were having, and closing his eyes for a moment, he concentrated, listening.

_Sherlock was asking why Mycroft never revealed that he could analyse like he could. He took in his brother's obvious discomfort with discussing the topic, and how he scowled down at him and used his height to try and look intimidating. His Chosen would not be perturbed however, and followed Mycroft around like a duckling, pulling at his sleeve and making brash comments about the adults around them loudly in an attempt to embarrass him. His brother, to his surprise, retaliated by_ **_correcting_ ** _Sherlock on points he got wrong, adding to them angrily and in such rapid succession that for just a moment the boy was rendered speechless._

 

_ John was too. _

_ He'd never heard Mycroft sound so utterly authoritative in his life. His true personality was beginning to chip through the usual shell he wore of cold fear. _

 

_Then Sherlock recovered and scowled, brows lowering._

_He asked why Mycroft stopped him from deducing the woman back at the church. His brother sighed and rolled his eyes heavenwards, but answered patiently._

 

_"Because there was no_ **_reason_ ** _to deduce her. If you just go around blurting people's secrets, you won't gain any advantage from knowing them."_

_His little brother's eyes narrowed, and he guessed something that made Mycroft smirk just slightly._

 

_"You're collecting information at school and blackmailing people with it, aren't you?"_

_"Protecting myself, actually." The boy corrected automatically "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't make it sound so filthy. It's a good habit to have, learning how to defend yourself without constantly fighting."_

 

_Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering his brother's words carefully, storing them away. So his brother had a_ **_use_ ** _for his skill then, other than just idle interest._

 

**_Fascinating._ **

**_  
_ ** _"You hide it from Mother and Father because you're collecting information on them as well." The little boy surmised, and at this Mycroft shifted ever so slightly. His smile faded, and something like regret flashed in his eyes._

 

_Clearly uncomfortable._

_However, Sherlock's response was different from what he expected. The little boy's smile grew absolutely huge, and he gripped his elder brother's hand in a rare display of affection and dragged him towards the top of the structure for a better view of the people._

 

_"Teach me!" He said emphatically, the most wicked smile ever dancing across his lips._

 John refocused in his own mind then, sighing just a little in resignation.

Another bad habit his Chosen could indulge in.

Wonderful.

Still, it was at once interesting and amusing to see the two brothers not fighting for a change.

The other kids from the neighbourhood ran about the playground, but none tried to approach the boys, as if sensing their unusual ways and giving them a wide berth as a result. They were two solitary shadows in the sun, approached by other dark outlines but never touched.

Never given the chance to reach out and touch themselves.

 

“Strange, how much loneliness can come from someone loved so much.”

 

His Father's voice was soft, and there was a kind of deep-running sadness in it's tone like a discordant moan. His gaze didn't waver from Mycroft, even when the boy climbed up a tree after Sherlock, shouting his fury.

 For one with the appearance of a small boy, God seemed very old with just one look. One glance showed that he read everything in that boy's mind and felt pain at the misery inside. It was an emotion the angel could understand, because he felt the same towards Sherlock. John found himself looking at him, shrugging in an uncomprehending way.

 

“You made him that way.... couldn't you just.....” He waved his arms, as if changing a person suffering from chronic depression was as simple as changing a flat tire. His Father shot him a look, sighing sharply through his nose and kicking himself back into an irritated swing.

 

“This is what I hate about being controller of everything.” He muttered under his breath. “No one seems to  _understand_ the infinite complications that comes in keeping whole universes intact. The slightest shift can tip the balance.”

 

John suspected that his Father was more talking to himself, so he bit back the snarky comment that wanted to work its way to his lips. He should probably be more respectful towards his creator, but he found he had a much more personal relationship with his Father than even most of his brothers and sisters. The truth was that God  _liked_ the fact that John argued, talked back. He liked having someone to bicker with, and in that way he was not so different from a certain darkly-curled little boy who was lecturing his brother on the importance of bees in the ecosystem by the monkey-bars.

In a way, John was almost certain that his Father had created him on some level just to rid himself of boredom so he didn't go off and destroy Egypt or some such nonsense.

 Reading his thoughts, God laughed delightedly.

  
  


“That's one way of looking at it, I suppose!”

 

His strawberry-blonde hair ruffled in a breeze, and for just a moment John saw in those irises a snippet of time, a flicker of a vision. Sherlock's face, smiling in a surprised but happy sort of way, an adult and wearing a bright blue scarf that trailed across the image before it vanished entirely. When the angel blinked it was gone, and he knew that his Father was travelling through time even as they spoke. Even as he seemed solid and  _here_ he was actually all over  _there_ and  _there_.

Confusing.

John had never liked the long and complicated explanations of relative time and space that his teachers had tried to explain to him. It was so much simpler to just live in the present without worrying about his past or future living on separate planes of existence.

To stop that unnerving train of thought, he turned back to the problem at hand, rocking gently in his own swing, letting his wings stretch themselves free of stiffness from being folded for so long.

 

“Why is Anthea so afraid of Sherridan? Why do the other angels avoid her?”

 

His Father paused for a moment, gaze flicking over at Violet and Aldrin Holmes. They stood a little ways from the park, admiring the gardens that lined up in perfect rows of marigolds and red roses and clasping hands. Like many other couples, they appeared no different. Average and possibly even ordinary, to someone who didn't see the subtle wealth in their clothes and jewellery.

In love, simply.

Human and in love.

 

“Tell me John,” God murmured, voice dropping a little lower in pitch. “Why do  _you_ think angels don't fall in love?”

 

Immediately he stated the go-to answer, the one he had learned from other angels. “It is not our place. Our only mission is to protect our Chosen.”

 

His Father snorted at the answer, rolling his eyes at the practiced timbre of it. When he had a cigarette materialize in one hand and then a lighter in the other, John scowled darkly.

 

“That's a bad habit you know.”

 

Lighting the end and inhaling so the ember turned a brilliant orange, the little boy exhaled smoke and scrubbed at his hair tiredly. Though no one could see them, John still half-turned, expecting someone to at least be looking on in horror at the sight of a child with a light in his hand.

 

“I never get them in Heaven. Castiel's constantly cussing me out for it when he's not off gallivanting on Earth. Leave me be.”

 

The angel snorted, but let his Father have his smoke in peace, even as God continued on his thought pattern. He flicked the embers into the sand.

 John gave his real answer in the next moment, sounding hesitant in his own ears, but honest. It wasn’t exactly a..... nice answer, but he thought it was as truthful as he could make it.

 

“I think.... it's because it's dangerous for us to love? We live forever, and we're so much stronger than Humans...... we'd only love once and if that person died and went to Hell, or disappeared or didn't feel the same way..... I think it'd destroy something.....”

 

The thought of losing someone you loved so intimately made John's chest hurt, and he brought a hand to the front of his shirt and clutched at the place that ached absently. God hummed approvingly of his answer and nodded, childlike legs kicking in the air. He was wearing rain-boots. Bright yellow ones that shone in the sunlight and made John squint against the glare.

 

“You are quite correct, son. Love can be a dangerous thing. As Mycroft himself is telling Sherlock right now 'Caring is not an advantage' most of the time. On this Earth, the worst thing one can do is make the mistake of showing your true feelings for someone.” The way God said this was sad, almost wistful. His blue-grey eyes turned the mournful shade of the inside of a violet. Like he wished things could just be simple, and two people could feel what they feel for one another without fear, without complications.

 

“Still, Humans try all the time to make relationships work. They harden their hearts against insults, put up with so much from their significant other. They think they are made of hate, but to me that speaks levels in their ability to love. Can you imagine then how deeply attached an  _angel_ would feel if they fell into affection for another person in that way? Your kind does not have ulterior motives in your emotions. You do not toy with other angels out of greed or lust. Angels have the souls of infants, and even though you don't feel like it, John, you are entirely  _naïve_ about just what a man will do when driven by such a powerful emotion. Love like that would be so pure that a Human could never  _hope_ to feel adequate next to it. Or hope to defend themselves against it.”

 

He regarded John calmly, and the angel felt his throat tighten in guilt as he realized that his Father had known all along about his longing, his loneliness. He wanted to argue, say that he should at least be given a  _chance_ , but he knew in his heart that God was right. He felt deep shame at his own weakness creep as a blush across his cheeks, but his Father didn't appear angry. Instead, he was gentle as he dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his heel. He reached over and stroked John’s feathers softly, sending waves of overwhelming comfort and physical contact that made him want to both lean into his touch and pull away. He whined softly, eyes fluttering closed with the sensation.

 

God’s voice was soft. “Don't be ashamed of wanting love John. Even angels require it once in a while. Your brothers and sisters love you very much, as do I. Don't hesitate to think on them when you feel like this.”

 

The angel was not an ounce regretful with the way he leaned his head against his Father's shoulders. John was extremely responsive to physical and emotional contact as most angels were, and he felt a calming sensation flood him like a tidal wave as he picked up on the child's soothing thoughts. God continued talking, teaching in his own way the lessons he felt each angel should know, rules that were experienced instead of recited. Morals that John seemed to grasp instinctively.

He had always been a quick learner.

 

“Sherridan has been forgiven of her past. Yet she has not forgiven herself. It is not my place to tell you what Anthea witnessed, nor is it her place to still hang onto the past like she has. Understand that sometimes people simply wish to keep the past locked away. If you  _must_  know, ask Rupert. But John, I cannot guarantee you will like the answer.”

 

The angel frowned at that cryptic statement, but pushed no further. In truth, he was just happy to be looked upon, to have someone acknowledge him. Perhaps it wasn't what he wanted exactly, but it was close enough that the ache in his chest lessened considerably. He had no right to be dissatisfied, not when his Father had to watch so many people ruin their short time on Earth by not stopping to appreciate the fact that they were alive and well.

There was once a time of war, when the Earth itself threatened to tear apart, demons and angels fighting against each other in bloody battle. Humans died in droves, and an entire universe was nearly engulfed in Darkness. The sky turned grey and cold. Lifeless.

Plants died and shrivelled up, the ground turned hard and unforgiving. Plagues infected Humans and Angels alike, horrible diseases that Demons cast on the land as they fed on the riches with blood-lust. They drank the blood of children, tortured an angel's Chosen in front of them, and held Newborns down and ripped their wings out, feather by feather.

 That had been when the Balance had been tipped, when God had tried to change Human nature, reverting them back to Purity. It didn't work, it wound up causing even more damage than if he had never tried at all. John knew his Father still lived in those times, locked in the battles and the screams and the tearing of wings from flesh. He could still close his eyes and see the angel he loved more than any other turning his back on him, walking away.

That more than anything was why God feared changing things.

Feared changing people.

 It was literally a domino effect; one tiny shift could negatively impact someone on the other side of the world. It was also why he Bound angels and Humans together. Two heads were always better than one, and each fed on the other's personality, whether consciously or unconsciously. Drew on the other's strengths, and learned from the other. Of course, the drawback was that their darker traits hurt each other as well. But that was life.

There was always a price.

 That was his Father's favourite lesson, and he made sure to instil it in all of his angels.

If something was worth the cost, truly worth it, it must be precious indeed.

 God didn't usually announce when he was leaving, but John felt that the time was soon. He sat up, and the small child before him slid off his swing. There was a fog in the distance, drifting towards the park in a lazy sort of way, like a thick blanket washing over the grass. His Father turned to him once, giving his hand a soft squeeze. His freckles scrunched into a sort of half-grin, and because he loved to drive John into a frenzy, he added “Oh. John......  _Catch him._ ”

 

The angel turned just in time to see his Chosen standing on the top of the play structure, arms outstretched beside him, dark lashes brushing his cheeks as his eyes closed and he leaned forward.

For a moment, all John saw was how those little shoes pulled away from the cold metal, ankle to toes in agonizingly slow transition.

 

Then Mycroft let out a shout and John dove forward desperately, wings arcing as he zoomed with lightning speed to catch the little git just before he hit the ground. When he looked up again, wings trembling with the rush of adrenaline and his heartbeat thudding in his ears even as he clung to Sherlock's groaning form (managed to save him from breaking anything thank  _God-_ wait...) his Father has vanished.

There is no sign of the strawberry-blonde child anywhere, and the fog drifted into the park slowly and began to dissipate with the gentle wind.

Mycroft was then kneeling down in front of Sherlock, calling for their parents with clinical precision even as checked his little brother's head for bumps and contusions. Through the pulsating in his neck, John wondered what on  _Earth_ possessed his Chosen to jump like that.

The way he had done it, there had been a positive calm over him. No thought or consideration for the consequences, no worries.

Like somehow instinctively, he knew he would be caught.

Like he was trying to fly.

 John shivered then, because Sherlock's green eyes take into account his injuries, eyes narrowed critically at the lack of permanent damage. Violet and Aldrin were already running over, and Sherlock ignores their scolding even as he was lifted into his Mother's arms.

The angel had a foolish thought then, and it was filled with sentiment that he was sure his Chosen would scoff at even as he was forced to pull away.

Forced to, once again, become nothing more than a shadow, a pale ghost.

Maybe on a subconscious level, his Chosen missed _him_  too.

 Maybe that was why Sherlock seemed to crave danger, yet never be fearful of it.

He always knew that someone would catch him before he hit the ground.

A dangerous kind of trust to put on someone that he didn't even know.

Somehow, that made John foolishly happy and terrified at the exact same time.

 

 


	6. Flawed Design

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is where the story takes a turn... the plot shall get started! >:3
> 
> and the song is flawed design by stabilo.
> 
> Again, thanks so much for the wonderful words and kudos! <3
> 
> You have no idea how much they brighten my week and how they encourage the plot bunnies to keep writing! XD many thanks to pigfarts23 for editing :)
> 
> Next chapter will probably be in Mycroft's POV.....

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
_And I will turn off_   
_And I will shut down_   
_Burying the voices of my conscience hitting ground_   
_And I will turn off_   
_And I will shut down_   
_The chemicals are restless in my head_

  
_Cause I lie_   
_And if I could control it_   
_Maybe I could leave it all behind (leave it all behind)_   
_Yeah I lie_   
_And I don't even know it_   
_Maybe this is all a part of my_   
_Flawed design_

 

 

 

 

 The real trouble began when Sherlock started to go to school. He was enrolled in the same private school as Mycroft, one that ran all the way from kindergarten to sixth form.

The place was dubbed  _St. George's_ , and was as imposing in size as it was in its reputation for taking in only the rich and elite. Once an old nunnery, now renovated into a place for learning, it stood like a hulking dragon atop a hill over the rest of the town, spires arching towards the sky like the spines of some massive fire-breathing monster. Much like a sleeping dragon, it's chimney's smoked heavily during the winter, and Mycroft explained patiently to Sherlock that no, that didn't mean he could climb to the rooftops during the summer just because the air would be clean. This, of course, made the faint glimmer in his little brother's eyes dim somewhat, and he asked what such spires were  _good_ for if not climbing?

 

“If you pay attention in class, you'll learn  _all_ about medieval and Gothic architecture by fifth grade.”

 

Sherlock sulked about it still, pouting even while shifting from foot to foot impatiently. Privately, he suspected he could learn all about it in  _half_ that many years, but he knew his brother would get tetchy if he voiced something so arrogant aloud. He hated the school uniform, especially for the elementary grades. While Mycroft's uniform was an acceptable blue and white ensemble with a navy blazer that bore  _St. George's_ crest (a white swan and a lion snarling as if poised to murder the poor bird) Sherlock's uniform was more like a cleverly designed restrictive trap to keep him from wandering off. For one his blazer had buttons, terrible things that his Mother liked to have all done up neatly in rows so that the darkly-curled boy felt like he was inside a straight-jacket. Patiently, she had woken even earlier than usual so she could do them up for him before work, reminding Mycroft to sternly insist that Sherlock at least look presentable for his new teachers. John watched his Chosen snicker at his older brother's obviously placating tone, knowing in his heart that even Violet who seemed to be a very  _demanding_  woman at times should know by now that there was just not a hope in Hell for certain things.

 

It was a longer walk than John expected. Trailing behind Sherlock's angry stomps and Mycroft's more graceful march, he and Anthea flew in the air and tasted the last dying dregs of summer on the breeze as the school loomed like Death itself up ahead.

(Though John had met Death before while he was training. A nice person actually, very sweet and tender. Often they liked to appear as a maiden in white to ease the fear of the souls of children. At the time, they had been holding the hand of a little girl and her angel. She had a round face and smiling eyes, even if one was still partially covered in blood from her car accident. They cleaned all that stuff up and repaired Earthly damages to the soul later on..... )

 

As they coasted easily on the northern draft that brought them higher into the clouds, the two angels conversed with one another. John listened to the distant rumblings of thunder overhead and wondered. The sky was clear, but the sound vibrated in his ears and crested in waves. He suddenly was afraid that Sherlock would catch a cold since he didn't even have his rain boots and would have to walk all the way home. The angel beside him didn't seem overly concerned, but Mycroft was older and stronger. Sherlock was still so little and pale, and he sickened easily despite his best attempts to stay healthy.

Anthea felt it necessary to warn John about all the things school did and didn't do.....

 

“You musn't let Sherlock get into fights. The teachers will tell him off and it will just make you sore from bruises. Dissuade him if at all possible. If absolutely necessary,  _find Mycroft and I._ Even though the school is divided between the older and younger grades with a fence, believe me when I say we'll find a way to get there.”

 

The certainty in which she said this made John at once shiver and smile ever so slightly. As the years passed, it became increasingly apparent that Anthea's paranoia to a certain extent drove Mycroft to become virtually omnipresent in his vigilant observations. Though he still suffered from insomnia because of his nightmares, John suspected that a certain strawberry-blonde boy had words with her, because she made an effort to, at least, not talk about Rupert or Sherridan.

Avoidance instead of outright fear, not the best solution, but given the fact that they were all forced into one household for at least part of the time, probably the easiest one.

As a result, Mycroft's true personality was finally not so overwhelmed by inexplicable bouts of terror, and his school marks soared if possible even higher than before. He also steadily became an intellectual force to be reckoned with, and John found himself in the uncomfortable situation of witnessing just what the adolescent could  _do_ to a person simply by using words.

Sherlock watched it all and catalogued the personality shift away in his mind.

He accounted it on the medication his brother had been given by the doctors, a logical answer if one didn't believe in small miracles.

 As they approached the gates to the school, Sherlock found swiftly that his original excitement at the prospect of deducing new people was swiftly turning into tepid reluctance. Part of it, admittedly, was because John could see what the little boy couldn't see, and it made him balk in his place and pull sharply upwards in the sky, beating his wings powerfully downwards so he floated in one spot and gaped.

The sky was alive with the beating of wings.

What he had thought was thunder was the sound of hundreds of angels circling the grounds, effortlessly weaving in between the Gothic spires of the school. They clung to the edges of the roof like gargoyles, flexing their wings in the sun. Others dove and intermingled with the figures down below, disappearing sometimes then reappearing closer to their Chosen. They held hands with the angel of their Human's best friend, chatted with the Guardians of the Teachers (you could tell who they were because their wings were fully coloured and more angular) and casually participated in flying competitions overhead. He drank it all in, having never  _seen_ such a gathering before of such astounding proportions, feeling himself shaking with the intake of everything seeping into his skin.  _Loud_ too, John didn't like noise at the best of times; it make him want to clutch at his ears and close his eyes, curl into a ball and grimace.

However, he resisted this urge as he felt Sherlock's insistent tug in his mind, willing him, unconsciously, to get a hold of his nerves. The little boy did not feel like letting on to his brother that he was nervous for his first day of school, and so making sure his dark black trainers were still laced up he held his head high and refused to let John dally. Dark curls blowing in the breeze, he marched purposefully into the school, stalking forward with confidence that was two parts bravado and one part nerves.

 The two brothers were forced to separate at the dividing gates that kept apart the younger grades from the older. Like an impassable wall that arched high over Sherlock's head, it rose imperiously towards the clouds and, to his childlike mind, seemed to go on forever. On one side, he saw bright colours and round faces, runny noses and soft things. On the other was raucous laughter, the slight tang of cigarettes and something sharper, and the vague flurry of hormones. Mycroft didn't kiss him or hug him like many other parents did; it would have been just too strange for even Sherlock to comprehend it he had, but he said goodbye with a small sort of nod and a clap on the boy's shoulder. His blue eyes held a weight to them as they locked onto green, and Sherlock's irises stopped their restless flicking all around him like a caged animal and instead, focused on his brother entirely for just a moment, sensing the importance of what was to be said. John shivered, because his Chosen's stare was often unnerving to people. It was why Sherlock often made a point to only look directly at people if they annoyed him, or if they were (God forbid)  _boring._

 However, Mycroft's gaze could be just as terrifying, and instead of hiding it, he seemed to prefer to wield it as an impossibly sharp blade. It hovered at his little brother's throat now, pinning him in place as the older boy did his best to embed the words he spoke into his younger brother's mind.

 

“People are stupid. It's going to frustrate you.  _Don't. React._ ”

 

He bit the last two words out, clipping them into an order. Sherlock's lower lip jutted out in a pout, but his hands clenched at his sides in solemn understanding. Because he didn't speak often, Mycroft, over time, had become well-versed in his silent body language. Right now, he was conveying a message that was roughly something like:

 

_I'll try. But I make no promises._

 

In return, his brother's eyebrow quirked. His own sign.

 

**_You won't try. You will succeed if you want to make it home in one piece._ **

 

_Bet I could run circles around them....._

 

**_You won't unless you want to pit your luck against me....._ **

 

 

At that, John watched Sherlock's lips torque into the slow sort of grin that lit up his entire face, and Mycroft let a soft chuckle work to his throat. He turned away and headed for his side of the gate, his hands in his pockets and his bag properly placed over his shoulder. Sherlock thought he looked very proper, and very posh. Like one of those villains from those old black and white films Sherlock had snuck downstairs late Friday nights to watch behind the couch when the maid moved about. A perpetually nocturnal creature who was silent enough to do her job late into the evening, she loved James Bond films far too much for the little boy to comprehend. With the image of his older brother sitting in a fancy chair and sending a spy to their death firmly implanted in his mind, Sherlock took a step into his new school.

 He just hoped that his new Teacher would be interesting.

There was nothing like a puzzle to make things fun.

It didn't occur to Sherlock at all that he might not make friends. That thought never registered in his mind because his family liked him. So surely it meant that others would like him too.

 After all, he was no different from anyone else.

Cleverer perhaps than most, but that hadn't stopped Mycroft from getting along with him. If his older  _brother_ could make friends, he could too.

After all,  _he_ was actually  _interesting_  unlike Mycroft.

John smiled at the innocence in his Chosen's logic, but privately wished that Anthea hadn't vanished into the sea of older children. He could feel a knot of dread building in his stomach even as he looked up at the fluttering sky of wings, and hoped desperately that just this once his instincts were wrong.

 

*****

 

The classroom was made up of bright colours and plastic-safe corners. Though Sherlock had (mercifully) been allowed to stay home from the horrendously  _soft_ year of Kindergarten, he still squinted at the harsh primary layout of his first-grade class. Desks lined the room in orderly, neat rows, holding in their seats as well as on their surface around fifteen other children in total. On each of them was a cardboard nameplate, and upon inspection Sherlock found his own name neatly scrawled with a loopy sort of handwriting on one at a desk to the far back. As he tentatively walked towards the desk, John was greeted by a raven-haired angel with caramel skin and wings that were lined with caring shades of pink and orange, block-like letters of the alphabet as well as equations and numbers lining her streamlined primary feathers here and there. He immediately knew she was the Teacher's Guardian because of this, and wasn't surprised as she gently introduced herself as Claude.

 

“Your Chosen's a bright little thing, isn't he?” She commented after John introduced himself somewhat nervously, and the young angel looked at her in confusion until she clarified how she knew. “Your wings. They're closer to being fully-formed than an average six-year olds would be. Look around.”

 

She gestured to some of the other angels milling about the class, and John indeed saw that already his wings were losing some of the childlike fluffiness that others still bore. As well, his wings were slowing down just slightly in their constant shift of colours. As an angel became older, it was increasingly difficult to make a mark on their wings. As a result, many kept the same pattern they wore in their teenage years, and were only changed if there was significant trauma or emotion in their Chosen's later life. The fact that Claude noticed this difference right away about John made him think that she was a clever soul, and he found despite the fact that he was coiled like a bound spring he smiled at her ever so slightly.

 

However, his smile disappeared as Claude, in an overly friendly tone, turned to the little boy who'd taken to folding up his nameplate into a paper aeroplane.

  
  


“Why don't you encourage him to go over to the circle area? I'm sure some of the kids will take a liking to him.”

 

Before he could stop himself John burst out laughing, wings quivering with mirth. He struggled to regain his composure, pointing at his Chosen as Sherlock rather effortlessly launched his plane across the room, aiming perfectly for the top shelf of the cubby-holes.

  
  


“No offence, but he rarely listens to my urgings.”

 

The angel frowned at this, eyebrows taking a stern sort of lilt to them. She sized John up with her eyes and he got the prickling sensation that came to rest just underneath his ribs with someone passing judgement on him. Nervously he shifted his feathers and stood a little taller, chin jutting out as he defended his Chosen.

 

“He's.... smart for his age.... I think he can decide where he wants to go....”

 

The older angel tutted, giving him a somewhat gentle but condescending look. John decided he no longer thought her wings to be quite so pretty as she flicked them in a sort of rebuking manner, as if his opinion was sentimental instead of truth.

She doubted Sherlock's mind, and that was a dangerous thing to do.

Borderline insulting.

 

“Children this age rarely know what they want.” She clucked, leading him even as she spoke about the room, showing him the room he would be chained to for most of the year.

  
  


He obediently followed, even as he kept a half-eye on his Chosen. John had become used to how quickly Sherlock could shift between innocent contemplation to action, and though it was acceptable for him to be  _considering_ turning everyone's nameplate into an aeroplane and conducting a flight experiment, he firmly urged him mentally to view it from a purely theoretical standpoint.

  
  


“There is a bell tower lots of angels enjoy sitting in during the lunch break. It's a good place to view your Chosen from a distance and still greet people you know. Occasionally, Father visits as well, though when he does it gets ridiculously crowded. Your Chosen will be on the south half of the playground, so if you lose sight of them just concentrate on that side. Since you're still a Newborn and probably limited in your abilities, don't worry about vanishing or teleportation. Chances are you will be able to get by fine here just by staying in your usual form.”

 

John nodded at all this information, privately doubting he wanted to watch Sherlock from a distance. He much preferred to be as close to his Chosen as possible, but didn't think his feelings to be at all unusual. It was true he was a lot more physical than Anthea, he liked to stroke Sherlock's hair for a job well done or give him a secretive boost up to whatever high place he was trying to reach, but he wrote that off as just part of his personality.

 

Maybe it was because Sherlock didn't feel comfortable when most others touched him, and yet yearned for contact when he was alone and thought he had only his thoughts to keep him company. John liked the fact that he could offer an invisible support, a warm touch in the long nights where his Chosen lay awake cataloguing and organizing, however small it was.

 Claude seemed to be waiting though for a more vocal affirmation as she looked at him with a gradually fading smile as time stretched on, so John broke from his thoughts with a start.

 

“Right.”

 

He resisted the urge to pull away when she brushed his arm, her murmur clinically understanding.

  
  


“We- my Chosen and I, were informed of Sherlock's.... behavioural issues. I assure you John, all you have to do is stay calm and in control. We will do our best to take care of both of you.”

 

Though her words are probably meant to be reassuring, John is too much reminded of the bloody therapists that he had been forced to watch make crappy clinical decisions over both Mycroft and Sherlock before. She went away slowly when he didn't show any sign of wanting comfort or questioning, and soon the angel found himself drifting back to his Sherlock once again, unwilling and unwanting to interact with the other angels that drifted about the room.

 

*****

 

Sherlock managed to be fairly well behaved until recess. Mostly because he was so preoccupied with the borderline sensory overload that assaulted him from all angles. John had managed up until that point to do his best to keep it at bay, even as the other children shattered his Chosen's personal bubble again and again by touching his arm or giggling in his face. The small child found it at once distressing and interesting, and he was mentally torn between slapping away those hands that pulled him to go play grounders and holding them closer. The chattering was never-ending, and it created a steady thrum in Sherlock's head as he struggled to absorb everything he saw, everything he learned about the children around him. Like a pulsing tidal wave, it swept him up and threatened to drown him, his face becoming pinched and pained the longer he was forced to sit in a desk and endure. Several angels also came to John to try and converse with him, oblivious to his growing worry over his Chosen as Sherlock buried his head in his hands and let loose the tiniest of whimpers. He had to be rude to one of them as they refused to leave the two of them alone, and felt bad for snapping. However, all reservations dissolved as he felt the first of the sharp stabbings of pain in his head that signalled that Sherlock's brain was beginning to revolt. The Teacher; a Human named Mrs. Turner, noticed and let his Chosen curl into the back and cover his ears, rocking slowly. The other kids of course noticed and whispered.

It only added to the fire.

Only added to the growing shriek as the walls of the Mind-Palace groaned with the weight of processing so much information.

This combination of constant attention grated on both Chosen's and Guardian's nerves like two cogs that didn't fit and made both of them fall on the same conclusion.

 School was literally a kid-friendly version of Hell.

 By the time the bell chimed for class to take a break, Sherlock bolted outside, welcoming the cool air that slapped his face and nearly crying with relief. The shudder that travelled down John's spine was unlike anything he ever experienced before as he launched himself into the sky, circling his stress away as he tasted the sweet breeze that let him soar so high into the air he felt the air lessen about him in his lungs. He gasped with the sensation, heart and head pounding, and he vaguely knew Sherlock was diving into the hollow of a large tree in the yard. A part of him wanted to go down and  _hold_ him, curl around him with his wings and protect the child from his own mind, but John knew from experience this was the only way to stop Sherlock's thoughts from tearing each other apart when he got like this. He had to clear his own head, take on some of the thoughts in his mind because if he didn't his mind would  _break_ and his Chosen would begin screaming.

Closing his eyes, John struggled to make his thoughts a white canvas. To make his part of their connection inviting to the whirlwind that was the roller-coaster of Sherlock's mind. It was a painful and slow process, and for an instant his wings flickered red with agony at the feeling of the train becoming a rearing, snarling dragon. It's malevolent jaws bit into his head and burned him, threatening to make John fall from the sky with the pain.

For just an instant, he was assaulted with everything in his Chosen's mind.

**_Painpainpainpain_ ** _ohGodthatlittlegirl'sparentsaregoingthroughad_

_divorceasshownbythelackofmoneytheschoolclothesobviouswearofhandmedownandher_

_emotionalstateandtheboybesidemestolegumfromhisbestfriend'scubbyandisfeelingguilt_

_fromthewayhelookeddownandaway_ **_painpainpainpainpainpain_ ** _teacherisinanaffairabsent_

_weddingringbutatanlinetoshowitshouldbeworntakesitoffatworksoaffairiswithanotherstaffmember_

**_Mycrofthelpme_ ** _can'tgetthethoughtstostopbumblebee's_

_areabletocarryfivetimestheirweightthefirstaeroplaneflownbytheWrightbrothersata_

_calculatedheightofmorethanttwelvetimeslowerthantoday'saveragejetAmeliaEarheartdisappeared_

_presumeddiedonunihabitedisland_ **_painpainpainpainpainpainpainpainPAINPAINPAIN PA-_ **

 

Then with a shout, John pulled himself away.

Wrenched free and hurtled back down, all but collapsing onto the ground half-hidden in the bushes. No other angels saw the struggle, and with a wince, he forced himself towards the hollow tree even though he wanted to curl into a ball because Sherlock  ** _needed_** him.

He could feel the mental connection not nudging but  _pulling_ him by his throat, like a burning chain squeezing tighter about his chest with each step. Like a red haze, it choked him and brought tears to his eyes, and he barely reached the tree before he tucked himself away from prying eyes and struggled to hold back a sob.

Inside the stump, it was dark.

 Sherlock curled into a tight little ball and trembled, crying into his knees and gripping the sides of his head. His fingers dug into his curls and tugged, sending sharp spots of pain that only minutely distracted the child from the crashing agony that blazed around in the back of his eyelids like wildfire.

He didn't scream.

Sherlock refused to scream, even as he flung his head back and gasped through clenched teeth as his mind was forced to make room, to adjust itself and survive. Mirroring his movements, John's chin tilted dizzily upwards, and he silently shouted for his Father to  _make it stop._

 

 God heard the plea, but he didn't stop it.

Really, he couldn't.

Because this was the first necessary hardship in Sherlock's life, the price he had warned John about.

The cost of being brilliant.

For the first time, he forced John to handle a situation on his own.

 

Neither of them could understand at the time or put a name to this wordless pain, but this would be the first of Sherlock's panic attacks. There had been hints of it before, enough that John had known basic ways to try and calm himself down even as he locked his knees together and breathed sharply through his nose. But never before had it reached this point, to the extent that Sherlock's sleeves became wet with tears and he couldn't see past the blurring in front of him. Their backs touching through the thin layer of bark, the two would learn what a panic attack was, and how one could alienate themselves effectively from an entire class of students by having one. It was the first thing that made Sherlock realize he was different from his classmates.

Unusual.

Later on that day when the child heard the bell ring and he stumbled back to his class with puffy red eyes and dirty clothes, he learned the first harsh rule of the playground.

That boys were picked on for crying.

That any sign of weakness was turned on like a pack of wolves picking off the faulty link in the chain. The other students that already looked at him in perplexion for refusing their earlier advances now took pleasure in his pain the way cruel children sometimes did, giggling into their hands and pushing past him roughly to get into class. One knocked the child over, and only John's hand stopped him from toppling head over heels. It made the angel grit his teeth and clench his hands, and for the first time John tasted iron-hot hate on his lips.

It surprised him at first, but then he selfishly coddled the new emotion, kept it carefully hidden from view as he let his features smooth into blankness.

An angel didn't hate.....

But there was no other word to describe the way John wished those mocking voices that jeered at his Chosen would all burn.

No way to depict the strength that held him back from attacking Claude because she had  _lied._

There was no way she could've known, but she shouldn't have promised and then not even acknowledge the fact that his Chosen spent the rest of the day curled up in the back, being as small as possible.

 He learned hatred that year.

He also learned how to  _hide_ hatred.

In short, John learned how to lie.......

And Sherlock learned how to fake a smile and tell his brother that he was fine when he came to pick him up at the edge of the school gates. In fact, he did it so flawlessly that it took John a moment that he was doing the same to Anthea.

That without even meaning to, a supposed angel of God just looked at someone with a completely straight face and told them

  
  


"We're both good."

 

Even as the thundering in Sherlock's head continued. Holding his brother's hand, Sherlock barely even flinched when he turned to his brother and said

  
  


"You were right."

 

_People are stupid._

_Stupid enough to believe that they would ever catch him crying ever again._

 


	7. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the song is standing outside the fire by garth brooks, and I'd really like to know what you guys think of this chapter, and in particular of Crow since he's from my own mind and not strictly a sherlock character.....
> 
> Also, if you just want to comment to let me know you're enjoying it, that's cool too :P
> 
> <3 you all so much for the wonderful comments and kudos!
> 
> Many thanks to pigfarts23 for editing this chapter! ^_^

 

 

 

 

 

  
_We call them strong_   
_Those who can face this world alone_   
_Who seem to get by on their own_   
_Those who will never take the fall_

_We call them weak_   
_Who are unable to resist_   
_The slightest chance love might exist_   
_And for that forsake it all_

_They're so hell bent on giving, walking a wire_   
_Convinced it's not living if you stand outside the fire_

 

_Standing outside the fire_   
_Standing outside the fire_   
_Life is not tried it is merely survived_   
_If you're standing outside the fire_

 

 

 

 

 

Mycroft learned from a very early age that when dealing with fire, things could get out of hand very,  _very_ quickly. You had to keep constant vigil over it, feed it without creating a raging inferno, and protect it from harsh winds even while minding the heat of its licking touch.

Even as a young boy, he understood these unspoken rules when it came to playing in flames, and made sure that he kept himself at a safe distance from any and all potentially flammable situations in life.

He was cautious.

Being cautious was good. It kept you safe. Yes, you could choose to dance recklessly into fire, but what was the point of it?

What was the point of blind emotion, of opening your heart to be brutally singed by inflicted words that most of the time weren't actually meant and were flung without consideration of their killing potential? He had always been clever from when he was little, and he swiftly learned that the people with real power were the ones that kept secrets.

Yes, Mycroft was always secretive by nature.

 In fact, the only thing he ever gave away was fear. It was the one thing that he always struggled to control. His worries. His compulsions. They came from nowhere, and many times, he felt like there were two versions of him, battling for supremacy in a mind that crackled and spat information. For years, he quietly struggled with the irrational terrors that came in his sleep, half memories that he almost felt like didn't belong to him. He was always startlingly emotional in those dreams, in a way he never was in real life.

Always the same dream. And yet he was certain it wasn't real.

Because how could it be?

In his dream there were people with wings.....

At least, shadows of them. It was all blurry, like a watercolour canvas that had been edited and tampered beyond visibility. If he didn't look at it directly, sometimes he saw things a little clearer. Dark brown eyes staring into his, trying to calm his screaming with hushed songs. A haunting melody he could only recall in the deepest depths of his bad episodes. An outstretched wing, arcing in agony as inhuman claws tore into flesh and sinew.

Black irises that glinted before turning milk-blue.

 It was how, somewhere deep inside of himself, Mycroft knew that the child that ran in his dreams wasn't him, despite how much it looked that way.

 When he was seven, the year his baby brother was born, he once tried to explain this to a therapist. He remembered, when he looked back on it, how wide his eyes had been, his legs dangling off the chair and kicking as he solemnly told her that there logically  _must_ be two of him.

See that had been Mycroft's mistake.

To think that an adult would understand that he was  _trying_ to be literal, instead of something more abstract. She asked him if he was trying to 'disengage' from an old memory or a bad event. He hadn't understood what she meant at the time, or what it had to do with the imposter floating in his dreams. When he vocalized as much she just nodded and went away, scribbling down furiously in her notebook. The scratching noise of the pen judged him ruthlessly.

 Since that day, Mycroft couldn't stand taking notes by hand.

 As a result of that meeting, the boy endured many more 'visits' even as he adjusted to having a new presence in the house. He learned a respect for power, as the woman who assessed him had power over his life. She could force awful medication on him, could convince his parents that he was broken or was dealing with 'unresolved childhood trauma of some kind', she could even accuse his parents of abuse, although they never laid a hand on him.

If anything, they were merely absent most of the time.

 Though again, the other side of him feared his Father, which made no sense, because Aldrin rarely even hugged Mycroft, let alone hit him.

It was a strained and strange relationship he felt with his parents, one that was often laced with confusion he didn't like and one too many forced attempts to make him at least somewhat normal. Every time he flinched, he would read the hurt in those eyes too often and feel guilt, despite his best efforts to repress it. It was perpetually stressful, enough that he often detached himself from the situation and retreated to his own thoughts.

His safe place from fire.

 Except, there was someone who stupidly, _appallingly_ seemed to long for it. To chase after it, heedless of scorching their little fingers. Mycroft was baffled when Sherlock arrived one day, cradled in the crook of his Mother's arms, all dark curls and soft angles. On the outside, he appeared utterly fragile and weak. Like most babies, he couldn't even sit up properly at first. Still, his eyes, when they opened, roamed every surface they came across, and unlike other babies, they held in them a purpose. A lick of flame that glowed in the dark and made their green irises blaze.

 Sherlock Theodore Holmes.

 The first time Mycroft ever saw a flame he considered caring for.

At first, there were obvious and logical reasons he took on a parental role. For starters, the infant was infinitely better company when he wasn't screeching in that piercing voice of his. Another reason, his Mother's gaze softened when she saw the older boy stroke Sherlock's curls. Looked at them both with a sort of hopeful affection, as if Mycroft would reject that kind of attention if she dared to give it to him.

He probably would have, but it still made the boy's chest squeeze in a disarming way that she was right. It would have been too strange, and Mycroft didn't reciprocate those feelings well. He might have them, but they never made their way to the surface.

Couldn't.

Somewhere between numbing medication and his own reserved moods, he very rarely let through anything beyond the wall of ice. Unmelting and frozen as his eyes.

 At first they were selfish reasons, and Mycroft hesitated to admit that there were any kind of unselfish motives behind his actions. After all, a little spark would one day grow into a raging fire. Explode in his face and leave him scorched. He would not give away his heart so willingly, not when he never had a choice with his parents.

His heart would not be traded for just anything.

With this little creature, his love would have to be earned.

 Perhaps cruel, but that was just Mycroft's way. He saw no reason why his affections should be bared for anyone to see, even his little brother.

Anxiety and paranoia.

The definition:

 Noun. -A feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome.

-Desire to do something, typically accompanied by unease.

Something else people said he had.

Perhaps in that case they were right.

Mycroft was never..... _at ease._

As Sherlock grew however from an infant to an inquisitive child, he  _did_ find himself comfortable with the little boy's presence. Or at least it was tolerable. He found right away that behind that somewhat angelic face there was quite a flame crackling, consuming everything and absorbing it's fuel in that unnervingly steady gaze. In that stare he saw that Sherlock could  _see_ things that Mycroft saw as well, and the knowledge that he was no alone with that kind of burden was at once relieving as it was troublesome. Troublesome because even though  _he_ was good at hiding his observations and using them for another time, he somehow doubted that his younger brother would be.

He naturally didn't want his secrets compromised, so he made sure to always keep an eye on him. Though rapidly it became apparent that it would be necessary anyway.

Sherlock seemed to have an overwhelming knack for getting into things he shouldn't.

He climbed trees, he experimented, he was endlessly  _curious_ about  _everything_ and  _everyone._ It was absolutely maddening. It was like inside that mind, a piston engine was at full power, fuelling itself on information endlessly. Even Mycroft's mind at times struggled to understand the reasoning behind the logic simply because he was so  _fast,_ and absolutely blunt and vicious in his means to achieve his ends. The elder Holmes remembered when he caught Sherlock once all but torturing the neighbour's cat, testing it's hearing by sounding various loud things right by the animal's ears.

 When he was scolded, Mycroft realized what Sherlock missed.

What he lacked despite his brilliance.

  
  


He looked at him with his chin half-tilted, angelic eyes clear as a sky and asked in a confused voice“I'm.... hurting it?  _But....you_ don't react when I make loud noises..... _”_

 

Sherlock did not understand suffering of innocents.

Or rather, he did not comprehend the moral  _wrong_  that society decreed was unacceptable. For that, Mycroft felt not fear, but worry.

It was the first time he wondered if maybe he was inadequate at raising a child. It was obvious now that Sherlock took in everything he did and said, and stored it away even though he might not show it. From that point on, the elder Holmes was cautious enough to show a little more mercy towards victims, and his younger brother took the lesson and learned.

 He did not actively hurt live animals ever again.

Whether or not he actually understood the unwritten rule or if he just followed it, Mycroft wasn't entirely sure.

  
  


It was unsurprising when he was diagnosed with a form of sociopathy, as well as being highly gifted. Just like him.... in a way.

Similar and dissimilar.

Opposite ends of a mirror, night and day. Which was all open to interpretation. It all depended on which moment you caught them at.

 However, where Mycroft had a tendency to treat others as pawns in chess, Sherlock seemed to simply not  _get_ their way of thinking. He was a drifting force, a terrifying shadow, and many of the other children avoided him even when he tried to be amicable.

And he did.

 _Lord._  Mycroft watched him try.

Whether Sherlock was aware of it or not, he  _wanted_ friends.

 Maybe it was the driving curiosity, or the everlasting craving to dance inside fire, or maybe it was because he desired  _silence_ in the roaring of his mind, but Mycroft watched his brother at once hate and long for the sensation of contact. He didn't understand it, that craving, but he watched as school began and his brother began to be driven mad because of it. While he observed, he quietly rose in the ranks of his own classes. He slowly became well-liked if not feared, and though most of it was an act, a good part of it was because the nightmares lessened. Soon, like a bad memory they began to fade, and as he began to rise, Sherlock began to fall.

 It was slow at first, his grades always sky-rocketed miles above the rest of his classmates. That was good, as it kept Mummy at least marginally happy, though she often asked if Sherlock had found any friends. The boy was a good liar, he effortlessly claimed to have friendship even as Mycroft looked through the chain-link fence each recess and watched his brother climb into the hollow of a tree and refuse to come out until the bell. In fact, as the years passed it became a sort of routine. If Sherlock lied particularly well, Mycroft would reward him with a tidbit of information or perhaps a lesson in better espionage. He knew inside this was not strictly good care-taking either, but he couldn't help himself. Somehow his first priority became his little brother's safety without him even realizing it, and if lying kept Sherlock safe...... kept him from breaking down like the little boy he was but never acted like or from fighting......

 Then so be it.

 It was all part of the game. The politics within their family that his little brother was only now entering. The illusion of being a happy, loving home.

The truth was, they were all cold.

There was no denying it, and there was nothing that could be done for it.

It was just who they were- love and affection did not come easily to the Holmses'. They often only had room in their hearts for one or two people, and so his Father had made his choice and chosen their Mother.

Which Mycroft couldn't blame him for.

His Mummy managed to love them all because she was only married into the family, and he loved Sherlock and her, and sometimes attempted to love his Father.

Because if he didn't love Sherlock, who else would?

He wasn't even sure if Sherlock loved him back, or even understood the concept if he did. He did not delude himself with sentimentality. There was quite a chance his little brother looked at him and saw only his usefulness, not his affection. In some way, that was easier.

It meant Mycroft didn't have to worry about ruining a false image of himself when the little boy asked questions about how Mycroft gained power.

How he used people ruthlessly.

How he was feared in his school not because of physical force, but because of his mind.

Mycroft built an empire about him, and as he approached his senior year of high school the end of Upper Sixth, he was comfortable in his power and position.

 He also did not trust or truly get to know anyone, as he knew from experience that most of the time he really didn't  _want_ to.

Knowing someone in his case meant knowing how to break them.

Their deepest fears and dirtiest secrets. When he knew someone, it often hurt them more than him.

 Well, anyone but those green eyes that had somehow wormed themselves past his ice wall.

The blank stare that neither condemned nor affirmed his existence.

The only real purpose in his gaining of power, his single rule and single demand.

Keep Sherlock safe from the fire, because he didn't even realize it when he was burning.

 In fact, it was because he  _knew_  Sherlock that he found himself standing at the chain-link fence, tapping his foot impatiently in the rain as it poured down his cheeks, soaking his uniform through. It was why he waited an entire hour after school, gritting his teeth and allowing himself to get wet, even when ice-cold water trickled down his collar and made the skin of his neck prickle with goosebumps. He stood as a solitary figure as the other kids filed past him, laughing and chattering with each other even while running to get out of this storm. He had heard the thunder, cracking shockingly from his desk in class and had known.

Now as time stretched on he cursed at the fact he had forgotten an umbrella. His little brother was taking too long.

Much longer than usual.

Yet he wasn't allowed to cross the fence. That was just common sense of safety that the school did it's utmost to uphold. Still his fingers found themselves weaving into the links, tightening as time past and his ice-blue eyes narrowed as he checked his watch.

An hour and a half later than usual.

Normally he wouldn't be as concerned. It was not uncommon for his little brother to take his time. Often he was holed away reading or hiding, losing track of the day in the vast motherboard that was the inside of his head.

He often forgot Mycroft when there was an interesting puzzle, and the elder Holmes never took it to heart. After all, there were weeks where he ignored Sherlock in favour of settling out one negotiation or another, or if he had an exam he should read for.

(Not that it was often that it was necessary, but sometimes he blithely lied just so he could catch a small breather.)

 Yes, there was no need to worry.....

 Except Sherlock was afraid of thunderstorms.

 Not that he had ever admitted to it out loud before, but Mycroft was aware. Whenever there was thunder or lightning on the horizon, his little brother would lock himself into his room calmly. Then, one could hear him playing his violin as loudly as he could, fingers moving deftly into a frenzied dance. There were nights he was woken by that playing, the flickering light outside crashing down to earth in time with the harried tones that seemed to scream in them a certain desperation even in their beauty. Then his eyes would glow in the dark as he lay there and listened with silent breaths, unaware of the way his angel would stretch her wings and sigh into the tune, humming a lullaby to the sound that she once used to calm Mycroft's worst dreams. Sherlock would play for as long as the storm thundered on, and in this way he comforted himself.

 So he waited. Watched the playground empty and grit his teeth.

And Mycroft found that maybe his heart had been given away without his consent once again. It infuriated him almost as much as the fear that threatened to make him revert to the small child he once was, the echoes of panic attacks flashing through his mind.

_And damn it, that rain was cold!_

 Various awful scenarios were beginning to play in his mind as his foot began to tap against the wet pavement, and he was seriously debating risking a suspension and hopping the fence. The cameras installed would catch him if he did, but that was becoming less of a concern the longer he waited.

It was a gamble, because there really was no way of knowing if Sherlock really needed help.

Was his brother injured?

Or was he just conducting another experiment?

He had done it before, it was one of the few things that made him often lose his patience, when Sherlock tested on him. Had he been cornered by someone?

A Teacher, or worse, and enemy?

 Mycroft was so preoccupied that he didn't notice the dark shock of hair under a deep black umbrella eyeing him curiously from the front doors.

Gregory Lestrade had been just escaping detention when he saw the posh-looking teen standing alone on the pavement, keeping a silent countenance in the pouring rain. His eyes widened when he recognized the figure, and against his better judgement he ducked behind the wall of the school just in time when Mycroft Holmes turned and peered coldly at where he had stood only a moment before. The teen's heart thrummed in his chest as he pressed himself into the sopping wet brick, hoping to  _God_ that lunatic hadn't seen him.

Lord knows it was his last day at this damned school, he didn't  _need_ to butt horns with the school's underground king when he had passed under the radar so well so far. Of course he heard the rumours, knew the stories. They flitted in his head and made the teenager that he peeked around the corner at seem much more menacing than he probably was. Like a cold hand gripping the back of Greg's neck, he dreaded the fact that his walk home would take him directly into the path of someone he had been avoiding all year.

Being a scholarship student was difficult enough at a rich school. You were picked on because of every little thing. The fact that you didn't have money, the fact that you had no life because you had to keep your grades up, the fact that his Father had been an abusive alcoholic and his Mother had essentially sent him here as a last attempt to save him from her drug habits. In fact his angel, an intelligent and elfin like man named Crow was firmly urging him to just hide back in the school, to wait until the imposing presence was gone. There was no telling which rumours were true or false from what he had heard, but Greg knew one thing.

If even one of the rumours was right, then he didn't want to mess with the ginger-haired teen getting soaked in the rain. Still, Greg wondered at how much that uniform must cost; he hadn't had to pay for his because there would have been no way for him to afford it. It must be getting ruined considering his said it wasn't machine washable and it was obvious the teen had been standing out in that mess for quite some time. Nervously he licked his lips, frowning to himself as righteous anger over the frivolity of rich people made his skin itch in irritation. Even if he never had to wear one of these tight monkey-suits after today again, it still bothered him that people seemed to take such riches for granted.

Would it kill these wealthy bastards to bother with a 'brolly?

Surely it wasn't so hard to check the weather forecast now and again.

 However, his thoughts cut short as a deep, smooth voice called out into the silence. The tone carried, calm and steady, but somehow Greg couldn't help but narrow in on the way those fingers tightened ever so slightly into the chains of the fence that cut the yard in half. He wondered what those eyes searched for as they roamed the other side, speaking a name the teen did not recognize.

 

“.....Sherlock?..... Are you there?”

 

The way he said it, it was like he was half-hoping some childlike head would pop out from a hiding place, and Greg recognized it somewhat incredulously as the tone of an older sibling calling out for his charge. He knew it because it was the same tone his older brothers used on him when he used to hide in the apple tree at their first house. Incredibly, his first thought was one of absolute dumbfounded shock.

 

… _. Oh God. You mean there's more than one of them.....?_

 

It seemed impossible, but there was no mistaking that something was.... off with Mycroft Holmes. Greg had caught glimpses of him in the past, and he had always been untouchable. Immovable like a stone statue, so much so that he was almost part of the school itself. Everyone knew of him. No one spoke of him unless they were within his inner ring.

An ice man.

And yet, Greg couldn't help but see a somewhat drowned cat before him, those eyes too large and too blue in contrast to the dark grey sky. Pristine and yet cracking just a little. He was suddenly overcome with the desire to know if the young man before him would break under it. Yet, it was also frightening as lightning illuminated those eyes, and he saw a driven determination brought to sharp point by adrenaline and  _fear._

_He's afraid._

_Afraid of what....?_

 When he saw the minute twitch in the teen's jaw, he knew he had to stop him from hopping that fence. Whatever he was looking for, Greg knew somehow that suspension couldn't affect the likes of Mycroft Holmes.

A suspension was better off for the likes of him.

The filth of the gutter.

 So without thought of how it might appear, Greg stepped out of hiding. Without asking, he shielded those ginger curls from further rain with his umbrella as he sidled forward, not pausing to think.

  
  


“Do you need someone to hop the fence?”

 

Up close, Mycroft was tall.

Very tall.

He had features that were bleakly attractive, odd but somehow coming together in such a way as to suit him. His eyes were such a light shade of blue they were nearly colourless, and they pinned Greg in place even as he looked at him with an unbridled sneer of minimally masked distaste.

Even soaked to the bone, Greg was chilled by those eyes, enough so that the forced friendliness died on his lips and his eyebrows came together cautiously in a subconscious attempt to show gentleness. He felt himself being stripped apart by that gaze in an instant, and without hesitation, and was surprised by the force of the teen's voice as he commanded him.

 

“Explain.”

 

“W-what...?”

 

An exhalation of breath, sharp and impatient.

“What do you want in return from me? Explain.”

  
  


Clipped.

Short.

To the point. 

Almost like a machine.

Greg, for a moment, stared, transfixed at the teen, mouth parted in surprise. He wondered if this was some kind of test. Mycroft's eyes measured him, as if expecting him to actually ask for some kind of payment. He answered slowly, unsure if this was perhaps some kind of elaborate trap and he just couldn't see it.

 

“....Nothing.... You just looked like you were sick of standing in the rain....”

 

He knew his answer surprised the teen, though he did his best to hide it. It was in the way those narrowed pupils searched for any hint of a lie on Greg's face. Privately, the young man wondered to himself what kind of life Mycroft Holmes must live if he cannot even tell when someone is just trying to do him a favour. Wondering on that kind of lonely existence however makes him seem almost human, and Greg wasn't about to disillusion himself into thinking something like that. He was pulled from his thoughts as Mycroft seemed to deem him at least marginally trustworthy, his voice commanding as he explains.

 

“My little brother. He's disappeared somewhere and hasn't come out yet. He's afraid of thunder. I suspect he's in the boy's lavatory, hiding. He's twelve, dark curls and green-blue eyes. I'd go after him myself but-”

 

He cuts off, peering again at Greg in question.

  
  


“You'll get suspended if they catch you..... are you sure-”

 

“Today's my last day.”

  
  


The dark haired teen grins somewhat cheekily, if only to hide the pang of sadness that rings inside his chest. 

Though he doesn't say the reason why, he doesn't have to.

  
  


The teen's voice sounded bemused even as he analysed Greg's life. “You're a scholarship student and didn't reach the grade you needed.”

 

“It was physics. It killed my average totally.”

 

He nodded, accepting this answer and choosing not to reveal that he knew the reason the boy hadn't been able to study was because his Mother had kept on disappearing late into the night and not returning for days on end. Something about the boy and the way he held himself, the elder Holmes was certain if he voiced his observations he would only do injustice to the brave face he wore. It's true he'd never bothered to look at Gregory Lestrade twice before in his life, but now he wondered if he should have. The teen wa somehow solid.

Dependable.

_Honest._

 And an honest person in a high school with only a troubled family life to hide, well, that was quite rare indeed. In fact, so rare that he wondered if maybe it was a trick of the light. That his eyes were lying to him.

  
  


“Well then, go to it.” He ordered automatically, to which the boy rolled his eyes and makes him wince.

  
  


He was not being as tactile as usual, and he knew it was because of the knot of dread in his stomach that refused to loosen.

Still, Greg stood by his offer and didn't tell him to 'piss off' even though he probably should.

He had no reason not to.

Something Mycroft found odd.

Instead, he handed Mycroft his umbrella and rolled up his sleeves, setting out to work obediently.

 Mycroft watched as the teen's eyes turned to the chain-link fence, expertly running over it in his mind before he backed up and leapt almost a foot and a half into the air. In the rain, the links were slippery, but Greg was experienced in fence hopping and kept a tight grip even as he eased himself upwards. It was a bit of a struggle, but he had no choice. The front to the fence had already been locked for the evening, and for some reason, the thought of disappointing the teen below him was at once terrifying and disturbing. He was still not sure if Mycroft was capable of murder, and looking in those blue eyes made him feel like he was free-falling into cold danger.

He had an athletic sort of build, so it wasn't so much trouble for him to shimmy himself upwards until he swung one leg over the edge. High above him, Mycroft peered up at the lightning-ridden sky, squinting to see the somewhat wild-looking silhouette. He thought he saw Greg's cheeky smile bare itself before he was a shadow on the black-top of the other side, running towards the boy's lavatory. A receding shadow, and if he hadn't known better, he would have said he stooped so low as to  _pray_  that the teen would find his brother for him, and bring Sherlock home.

Anthea regarded the dark angel that crouched itself on the top of the fence, cat-like and bone thin. She was in a defensive position, keeping her body between her Chosen's and the strange Guardian that had made itself known with the appearance of the equally strange boy. Though she was sure to keep her gaze frosty, she analysed the thin figure, taking in the bony and disjointedly sharp angles of the angel. The soul was tall, rail-thin.

Bare.

His wings were the colour of starless night blue, almost black, and they stretched so lithely that she could see outlined in the lightning the glints of silver in their depths. They spoke of a roughness that the cat-like figure itself did not seem to have, olive-toned skin bearing high cheekbones and midnight-black waves of hair that were just straight enough not to curl at the ends. Gold eyes assessed her from their vantage point above, unreadable as her own.

Crow regarded her carefully, sensing a viper in those dark brown eyes that would not hesitate in its bite if he moved the wrong way. She was beautiful in a porcelain and ice kind of way, and even though he was an angel and did not view her through the sexual ideas of Humans, even he could appreciate a pretty face. His smile was roguish, and though he was partially afraid of her, he found himself becoming curious even as he checked on the Bond with his Chosen periodically.

The rain did not dampen either of them as they were translucent as air, and for a moment they just eyed each other territorially. Guessing at the other's limits and their edges, tasting the bubbles of protection they both cast. Both of them sensed the other was extremely protective, similar in their possessive spirits.

Both also surmised the other's disdain.

Anthea because of Mycroft's own pride, and Crow because it was due to this arrogant prat that his Chosen would probably catch a cold later on tonight.

He didn't really relate to why Greg felt compelled to help every desperate-looking sod, though he understood. Watching his brothers get beaten to a pulp by their own Father for years made a protective urge out of even the most apathetic Human. He didn't hold it against him of course, but Crow was a solitary creature, and he disliked brushing wings with such a powerful angel.

Anthea was strong, well known for being downright terrifying. The dark angel made a habit to slink past her, though she often appeared out of nowhere. It was strange, because normally confident angels didn't hide like she did. Yet there was no denying her presence, just like there was no ignoring the appearance of her Chosen for Humans when he walked into a room. She was an anomaly, one the wraith-like angel had often watched from a distance. Shy and yet menacing when disturbed. Though he wouldn't admit it, he found her..... interesting.

If only because she hadn't tried to bite Greg's head off when his hand had brushed Mycroft's with the handing over of his umbrella.

For that was the one rule that every single angel followed when dealing with Anthea:

**Do.**

**Not.**

**Touch.**

**Her.**

**Chosen.**

Protective issues.

It was something Crow knew well.

He had them too, and the memories flickered in his mind and made him lick his lips with adrenaline from the long nights when those fists had connected with Greg's flesh and made him see red.

The cold as he was held back by unbreakable laws.

They watched each other in the rain.

Not even realizing how alike they were, twin mirrors with different faces.

Don't touch.

*****

Greg found him.

The lavatory was a cold place, heating not needed in the nights. His breath steamed from his lips, and he shivered in the dark shadows that were beginning to cast themselves on the tile floors. Water dripped dankly from a leaky tap, and the air smelled of piss and disinfectant. During the day, it wouldn't have seemed sinister, but the pale blue light of lightning cast itself eerily upon the white stalls and made them reflect in such a way that his eyes glinted in the dark. Stepping lightly and resisting the urge to shudder, he felt himself being pulled along almost instinctively to the last stall, the only one with a closed door. Greg figured if he was a scared kid hiding from a storm, he would probably take that one, and since all the others were empty, his assumption was probably correct.

Sure enough, as he approached, he heard the muffled whimpers of a small child. It took him only a moment to twist the lock undone because they were cheap and useless, and he found Sherlock Holmes curled into a ball with his hands fisted in his dark curls, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He was so small that he nearly faded into the brickwork, and Greg's first thought when he saw him was that this couldn't possibly be a twelve year old.

  _H_ _e looked barely six._

 Green eyes flinched open at the intrusion of his hiding place, and if possible, the boy made himself even smaller as he let out a yelp of barely controlled terror. The sound made Greg think that it should be louder, should even be a sob, but the boy clenched his teeth as if to refuse to let any more noises come out even as he ducked behind the toilet and tried to scrabble away from the older teen's presence. If Greg had been able to see John, he’d have seen his wings spread so they shielded his Chosen from the boy and a snarl of protective fury on his lips, as he wondered to himself just how many more kids wanted a piece of Sherlock Holmes.

 Greg hastily held up his hands in a symbol of peace, quickly explaining himself even while trying to keep the boy from scrambling under the stall door and escaping. His voice was soothing as he tried to wrap a hand around one of Sherlock's ankles, attempting to pull him out from hiding.

  
  


“Hey, hey it's okay. I know your brother Mycroft, I-”

 

At the contact of his hand on his foot, Sherlock let out a snarl, kicking him. Greg was surprised with the force of it and was knocked against the stall hard enough that stars sparked in the back of his eyelids. He would have been less surprised if he had seen John blast him back with a mighty beat of his wings and an animalistic roar.

The angel was already on edge, and though he was not allowed to touch another Human, he was willing to push the limit of what is considered 'physical contact' as both he and Sherlock spit the same sentence aloud, even though Greg only heard one voice echo throughout the bathroom.

 

“ _Don't touch me!”_

 

For a moment the teen just lay there and groaned, momentarily stunned. His ears rang with the shout, and he cussed lowly. Then he was struggling to his feet, wheezing and shaking his head a little woozily as he glared at the petulant kid glowering at him with bright green eyes behind the toilet.

  
  


“Look, kid-”

 

The boy before him sneered at his placating tone, and in that flash of teeth Greg, noticed the black eye Sherlock was sporting. He halted where he stood, realizing there was true fear of him in the child's eyes despite his anger, and puzzle pieces suddenly clicked into place. He let out a low breath, backing himself to the farthest other end of the stall before he continued speaking. John watched the Human with narrowed eyes, wing-tips still quivering with the rush of adrenaline filling his system. He took in every movement, from the way the teen ran a hand through his dark hair to how he winced even as he backed up and sat himself down, making himself small and non-threatening. The angel's roar was one long and connected growl, no pause for breath in between, even as the hair on the back of his neck prickled with furious energy and power. Sherlock was picking up on the anger, letting it fuel him, and he too began a low moaning snarl.

Lightning sizzled across the sky, and if Lestrade were truly looking he might have seen the briefest outline of a holy monster in a rage.

Greg clutched the side that got kicked and tried a softer tone, barely above a whisper as he murmured to the small child who was more like a wild animal before him than a boy. He tried to tell himself he wasn't scared of the murderous glare in those green irises, convincing himself to ignore the harsh growls Sherlock was making that made him sound frankly demonic and possessed.

His practice with his older brothers came into play, and he remembered the way they used to calm him when he got to this same breaking point.

Gently, ever so slowly, he allowed every muscle in his body to become relaxed and non-threatening.

 

“I'm with your brother.... Mycroft. Shhh Sherlock. It's okay...... shhh. Mycroft wanted me to find you....I'm Greg....”

 

At his brother's name, some of the snarls stopped. Sherlock glared at him suspiciously, reading everything in Greg instantly. The teen tried not to flinch as a voice rough from screaming reached down into his soul, pulled out his entire life and splayed it out on the tile floor like guts strewn carelessly.

  
  


“You're in an abusive home. Obvious. Not lying, Mycroft did send you, although my brother knew nothing of you until today. No, a lie. You knew of him, you're scared of him. However, you're not coming to get me because you're scared. It's something else, possibly out of kindness, more likely because you sense a duty as when you were younger you never could protect your brothers from your Father's drunken rages. You are right handed and throw a ball well, also bandage bones fairly well and can do basic stitches. Your stomach is currently hungry because you've skipped lunch, or more likely you couldn't afford the lunches here since you are a scholarship student without any money whatsoever. You're beginning to skip breakfasts too, mostly because your Mother keeps forgetting to go out and buy food or can't afford it. Your uniform speaks of being well-kept, but you let it get wet. You gave my brother your umbrella, which means that you no longer care for your uniform. Meaning you're expelled? No. You can't afford it.You didn't keep your grades up...Boring.”

 

Greg stared.

Those green eyes stared back. Completely unrepentant and not confused.

One hundred percent analytical and cool.

For a moment, Greg felt like an unspoken communication passed between them.

One the boy understood but he couldn't.

Then Sherlock suddenly broke their strange contact and leaned over to the toilet, hacking up blood. Before he could caution himself Greg was leaning over, freezing just in time to avoid touching when the boy let out a warning whimper. His lips were crimson with red liquid as his knuckles clenched the white bowl, and the teen saw the glint of cold metal in the water that had been hacked up before he arrived.

Razor blades.

He said a word that a twelve year old probably shouldn't hear, and commanded him to open his mouth. At first, Sherlock wriggled in annoyance, but when Greg threatened to pin him down and force him, he sighed wearily and parted his lips.

What the teen saw makes him flinch.

Thin lacerations coated the boy's mouth, sharp and bleeding freely. None of them were deep, but they were all red and extremely painful looking. Sherlock explained to him detachedly, not seeming to react even when the teen rubbed a hand over his eyes in fury that someone could do this to such a small child.

“Thomas Mckinnon is the son to a barber, an extremely unhappy man who is cheating on his wife and can't be bothered to look after his only son. As a result he has access to all sorts of sharp implements, razors easy enough to find on hand in his home. This will lead to cutting later on in his life and possibly even suicide. In retrospect, it should have occurred to me that when he said  _'if you don't shut up I'll cut your fucking tongue out'_  he could literally  _try_ to cut me. He and some other kids pinned me down and had me swallow two. I spat them back up when they left, and I don't think there's any great damage.”

 

If Sherlock had known that it had been John that had forced him to hack those blades back up, he might have thanked the angel. As it was his Guardian, when he felt the agony in his throat, had, in a panic, performed a very high level of Healing Magic in order to save Sherlock's life. Surprisingly, it came naturally to him.

Like breathing.

He just fuelled his rage into it with all of his might, imagining pummelling Tom Mckinnon into the ground again and again and making his angel watch as  _he_ had been forced to.

He had been working on healing his Chosen's eye, in fact, when the teen had barged in, and it was now much less swollen than before. No longer red, it was now just an angry throbbing purple.

Greg shook his head in dazed shock, muttering something that sounded like  _“_ _Jesus Fucking Christ.”_  Under his breath. The fact that the small boy in front of him stated all of this so matter-of-factly, without shedding a tear or trembling of lower lip, was disconcerting. He stared at the boy who stared at him fixedly, seeing  _through_ him instead of at him. He got the impression the boy wasn't here, not really anyway. Sherlock had left his own reality a long time ago. Buried somewhere inside his Mind-Palace, avoiding the agony that came with trying to close his mouth. The only thing that brought him back, if only in flashes was the thunder. When it cracked the boy's entire body flinched, as did John.

Greg was almost reminded of his second-eldest brother, Addie.

He had Aspergers and mild autism, and used to stare off into space like that only when the fighting got to its' worst in his home. The memory was haunting, and he found his mind blurring the two boys together before he could stop it. The same haunted gaze, miles away from home.

 This time, Sherlock didn't flinch away from him as he took off his coat and wraps it around the shivering boy, pulling the zipper up to his chin even as the sleeves and length trailed past him almost comically. Closer now, the teen knelt in front of him, dark eyes understanding of his pain. The child wondered absently how another gaze could understand him.

Then it occurred to him he didn't care so much  _how_ , as to the fact that it was actually  _happening._

 

“Is it okay if I carry you? We have to climb the fence. Your brother's waiting.”

 

“Mycroft doesn't really care.” The boy murmurs softly, more to himself than the teen before him.

  
  


It was a feeble statement, one that was resigned. He knew his brother didn't care for him because Mycroft cared for no one. People in the Holmes family did not  _care._

It was impossible for them to.

He didn't expect an answer, but he got one anyway.

  
  


“He ruined his uniform for you.” Greg breathed.

  
  


And it was strange, how those words relieved some of the tightness in the child's chest.

Wordlessly, he lifted his arms up, sleeves falling back to his elbows.

A silent sign of surrender.

Slowly, Greg lifted him out from his hiding spot behind the toilet, cradling him up to his chest. The child didn't complain, it was as if in explaining his reason for hiding, he had sapped all the strength left in him. He curled himself tightly against the older boy, burying his face against his neck and inhaling. He tastesd mint gum and cigarettes.

Not from the teen but from his Mother.

An echo of her touch like a scar.

John allowed himself to shrink in size, tucking himself into Sherlock's front pocket. It was a new trick he’d learned over the past years, convenient if his Chosen was off running somewhere. He was like a firefly glowing in the depths of the fabric.

It happened in snippets.

Greg opened the hall door once outside the lavatory, and the rain and thunder hit them both and Sherlock shivered against him. The teen's grip tightened around him, a silent cage.

They did not see Crow circling the sky, a dark shadow in the thunder as he swooped and signalled to Anthea their return.

 Sherlock thought he hears his brother call out, but it was hard to tell with the pumping of Greg's jogging legs, or with the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. His eyes squeezed shut, he momentarily resisted as the teen pulls him away from his grip on his blazer. However, when he felt Greg climbing, he let go, allowing himself to be tossed to Mycroft.

His brother's hands shook as they held him, but they've never felt so warm and attentive before. Sherlock leant into the touch of those long fingers brushing the curls out of his eyes. Even though he was much too big to be held like a baby, he let his brother hold him. The familiar sensation formed a cage about him, sheltering Sherlock from the storm and the rain. The umbrella above them made a black force-field when he cracked one eye open, and for just one moment, he felt entirely encompassed in safety.

 Greg swung himself the rest of the way down the fence, now thoroughly soaked through down to his boxers. However, it was worth it as he gripped his knees and pants, staring at the scene before him. Mycroft knelt in the puddles, ignoring his uniform entirely in favour of the boy in his arms. The umbrella sheltered them both as he watched the teen he once thought to be so cold stroking the bruises that littered his little brother's skin, voice cracking in fracturing sadness as he rocked him like an infant. In that moment, Greg was amazed to see not a machine, but a  _Human Being._

 And Crow watched as Anthea spreaded her wings over the two figures, sheltering them so tenderly that it felt almost intimate, and wondered at how a face that looked at him so coldly could turn so kind and unbearably fragile in an instant.

The teen hated having to break up the happy moment, but he knew it's late and he must be on his way. There were things he feels obligated to tell Mycroft, and the foremost in his thoughts was the razor blades that very nearly cut his little brother open.

 When Greg explained to Mycroft what Sherlock told him, his grip tightened around the little boy's shoulders, and the broken expression masked itself over to ice.

The coldness was back, but the dark-haired teen was no longer frightened of the expression because it was no longer directed at him.

He pitied Thomas McKinnon in that moment, because a person would have to be absolutely mad to want that kind of glare fixated on their person.

He personally would have sooner volunteered to throw himself from a cliff.

 For a moment he just stood awkwardly in the rain, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching the silent reunion with a mixture of relief and pride that he’d done something right. That his father was wrong, that he was somehow..... _able_ to help people despite the fact that he was always in trouble fighting, stealing or failing.  _This_  was why he wanted to prove himself,  _this_ was why he wanted to work in law when he got older.

These kinds of moments gave him a better high than any drug he had ever watched his Mother consume.

He was not expecting anything as Mycroft rose, and he stuttered his good-byes hastily as he realized he'd been standing there staring at them for nearly ten minutes. A low flush working his cheeks, he was surprised as that bleakly handsome face regards him coolly, looking at him with the most peculiar expression of gratitude and confusion. It's almost comical, to see Mycroft looking downright flabbergasted at something. If those eyes weren't directed at him, Greg might have laughed. Instead, he shook his head as the boy held the umbrella out to him uncertainly, smiling a crooked sort of grin that was at once foolish as it was somehow charming.

In that exposing of teeth, Mycroft saw fire.

Yet, instead of recoiling, he was inexplicably  _pulled_  by it.

 

“Keep it. You two will need it more than I do.”

 

Of course this wasn't entirely true; his mother would scream at him and maybe hit him when he got home and she saw the state of his clothes, but Greg didn't particularly mind. He jutted his chin towards the now-sleeping Sherlock, keeping his voice low.

  
  


“Just take care of him okay? No one deserves to be treated like he has been today.”

 

And then, because if he stayed any longer Greg might do something foolish like actually offer friendship to the peculiar young man, he shrugged and scuffed the ground with one shoe. Muttering a good-bye, he made as if to leave, stopped only by the hand that reaches out and claps itself down upon his shoulder.

 

_Touch._

 Crow's feathers' rippled with the sensation, his eyes widening as he smothered a gasp, palm clenching against his lips.

 Slowly, feeling a very warm and sort of tingling sensation all down his spine, Greg turned slowly to find those blue eyes very close to his. Still cradling Sherlock, he watched the other teen's lips part as if to speak, stop, then restart with determination.

The words sounded foreign on Mycroft's tongue, taste new and unusual. Yet strangely.... not unpleasant.

 

“Thank you Gregory Lestrade. I.... owe you....”

 

For just one moment, Anthea's feathers rippled with a new colour.

Midnight blue.

The same shade as Crow's, just at the softest under-feathers right by her spine. Only for a moment, but humming an unmistakable pressure right against her ribs.

 Greg, even though he could scarcely breathe, managed to sound somewhat smooth in his own ears at least if no one else's.

  
  


“Keep the umbrella then, that way.... That way you won't forget the debt. Pay me back.... later...”

 

Then, stepping out of Mycroft's grip of both his hand and unmistakable stare, the dark-haired teen ran off into the rain. His footsteps pounded harshly against the pavement, and the elder Holmes watched his receding figure with an unreadable expression on his face.

As if turned to stone.

Thinking.

Wondering.

Confusion.

He might never have moved again if Sherlock hadn't sneezed, beginning to tremble violently from the cold.

Thunder crashing overhead, Mycroft carried him all the way home, swinging a dark black umbrella over his head, lost in his own thoughts and his own mind......

They would not meet for many years again, but the Holmes kept his word and made sure he never left home without an umbrella ever again.

Lestrade left home only a year later.

His brother Addie was found dead after wandering out into the night and getting hit by a car.

He remembered Mycroft that day and the little boy who reminded him so much of his older brother even as he stood in the rain by the cemetery without his umbrella, and he wept.

Yet he never had the courage to come back to that school, and soon life made him busy.

He soldiered on.

And one day, he even became head of the police force. D.I Gregory Lestrade.

And Crow's wings were midnight blue, save for a single thin lining of pure blue ice on the very edge of his primary feathers.

One patch on the shoulder of his wing, shaped in a perfect hand-print.

_Touch....._

 

 


	8. A Cursed Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo the plot bunnies are holding me hostage. :/ after one more chapter John finally enters Sherlock's life!  
> IT'S COMING SOON PEOPLE DON'T WORRY.
> 
> My plot's just always start out ridiculously slow...
> 
> Song is Dance with the Devil by breaking benjamin. 
> 
> Please lemme know what you think! Love you all! <3
> 
> Many thanks to pigfarts23 for editing :3

 

 

 

 

 

_Close your eyes, so many days go by._

  
_Easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right._

_I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies._

_I won't stay long, in this world so wrong._   
_Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight._   
_Don't you dare look at him in the eye, as we dance with the devil tonight...._

_Trembling, crawling across my skin._   
_Feeling your cold dead eyes, stealing the life of mine._

_I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies._

_I won't last long, in this world so wrong._

_Hold on. Hold on._

_Hold on. Hold on._

_Goodbye._

 

 

 

 

Three years passed shakily since that day in the rain.

Since that day, John viciously became one-minded in his conversations with his Father, terrified of what could've happened if he had been less fortunate, or worse not  _there_  to protect his Chosen. The once-pleasant debates began to take a more heated tone, and the angel became increasingly frustrated with both Humans and angels alike as he felt like he was shouting at an immovable wall. The pressure built and chafed between him and God, and after one particularly  _annoying_ bout of whining, even the Heavenly Father himself snapped.

 

“ _Enough_ John!”

 

His voice magnified itself, rumbling into the low growl of a beast pushed to its absolute limit. For a moment, the strawberry-blonde's violet-blue eyes flashed pure and furious gold. John flinched, wings folding against his back defensively even as he forced himself to hold his ground, chin clenching stubbornly. In just the briefest instant, the angel saw in his Father's normally placid personality the hint of steel that he often kept buried. The man that had damned thousands to Hell, and the creator who had pulled apart the universe at its seams in order to recreate it into a place capable of sustaining life. He curled further into the plastic seat of his swing, the park becoming a place for regular meetings between them (when John could tear himself away for a few hours, usually while Sherlock slept or was doing some menial Human task like bathing, because John found himself irrationally awkward around his Chosen as he became less of a child and more of a man).

 After a tense moment in which neither refused to look away, John finally lowered his gaze and ran his hands through his hair in frustration, letting the blonde locks stick up in sharp and erratic directions. His father pinched the bridge of his freckled nose and exhaled sharply, annoyed at himself for losing his temper over something so petty. His ankles kicked him back into an agitated swing, tossing up the sand of the playground and turning it into a flurried little dust storm about them. John's eyes watered and he tried not to sneeze, squinting at the childlike figure resentfully under his pale lashes. His hands tightened about the chain of his own seat, and even though he didn't dare speak, he knew that his Father sensed his indignation at being yelled at.

In fact, God sensed a lot more than just a little bit of petulant resentment.

He sensed something black and malignant, sour and familiar, and yet he was unable to identify its presence, and his lavender eyes glance up sharply at its flavour.

 

… _. Not exactly uncommon..... but.... odd that it's clinging to him so...._

  
  


It hung about John like a sickness, and in irritation, he reached out and batted the mist-like shadow away from the angel's shoulders. His wings rippled in annoyance at the touch, and John pulled away. His Father scowled, gritting his teeth. He'd had quite enough of this foolishness, he'd lived thousands of millions of years and wasn't about to be stubbornly ignored by an infant.

 

“John I  _told_  you. Sherlock is not considered a high-risk Human. Despite your concerns, I  _cannot_ allow you to become a visible Guardian, at least in this stage of his life. You must understand, that permission to actually  _enter_ the Chosen's life in a physical manifestation is used only in the most gravest of circumstances. Men in the middle of battlefields, the homeless who are at risk of getting murdered in their sleep..... _children_ in abusive situations.....”

 

“You don't  _understand_.” John murmured, blue eyes flashing painfully as he recaled the night before, and where Sherlock's thoughts had wandered for just the briefest of moments before he had managed to steer him viciously away from that particularly dark train wreck.

He touched one primary feather, where new colour stained the normally complex shades of green and blue to dull and lifeless grey. The angel's voice was thick with emotion, desperation as he looked into those impossibly old eyes and considers  _begging._ His hands pressed against his eyes because they burned strangely, but no tears fell.

An angel doesn't cry unless put through unspeakable agony, and though John was most definitely suffering, he wasn't having his heart torn out from his chest or his wings crushed in feather by feather.

At least not yet.

  
  


“He wonders sometimes what it'd be like to die.” He whispered against the palms of his hands, shuddering slightly with how numb he felt when he spoke the words aloud. They tasted like acid on his lips, like a slow-acting poison that he was becoming accustomed to. He was getting used to feeling on edge all of the time, to feel adrenaline constantly rushing through him.

To feel anger naturally, even though it should feel unpleasant and strange in his bones. It instead, weighed him down, keeping him from flying into the air like a screaming rocket.

He was tied to his launchpad and set to build in pressure like a bottle of soda shaken and sealed, tied to Sherlock.

A bottle rocket of controlled rage.

 

“Whenever I'm in his head lately, I drown. I can't even  _begin_ to try and calm him, and there's so many things he worries about that no one even _sees_. It's like I'm one voice in an ocean, and I can't hope to keep swimming when there are times he  _tries_ to pull me under.”

 

At his Father's pained silence, John continued, hoping to maybe get an edge of his reasoning to make some vain impression. God  _could_ change his mind. It wasn't often and it was usually only because of dire circumstances, but  _somebody_ had to see how important this was. How much Sherlock's existence mattered, and how making him sit here and twiddle his feathers each and every time his Chosen was beaten was pushing John towards the unthinkable. He might very well  _hurt_ someone soon, and though the Laws were very clear about what would happen to him if he did something to another person's Chosen, the angel wasn't so sure it would matter if he was pushed the wrong way. He knew his tone was not helping, and neither was his impatience, but he was worried.

 Sherlock will be crossing the fence this year.

And with that, the last vestiges of childhood order would vanish, and his Chosen would be finally allowed somewhat into the adult world. Not that he wasn't ready intellectually. He had been prepared in that way for years. It was the fact that Sherlock would be at once an adult and a child that concerned him. John had learned that if anything, his Chosen needed respect.

Respect was not often given to teenagers, even when they were.... less confrontational than Sherlock was. Adults didn't take well to him to begin with, they thought him offensive and cheeky and far too eerily silent for someone his age, often shooting him sideways stares out of the corners of their eyes and muttering under their breaths.

Of course, he  _was_ all those things, he was a  _Holmes_ for the love of everything good in the world, how could he be expected  _not_ to be?

John often wondered how Humans spent most of their time trying to create beautiful things, and yet could be so  _blind_ when a beautiful  _person_ stood before them.

 No, he would be destroyed if this continued. Sherlock would burn himself out.

Reading his thoughts, his Father's gaze softened from its annoyance. He could sense the overwhelming fear, the dread that was crushing John's sternum to pieces and shredding it. Like a bruise, it throbbed in his vision like a pulsating wound, and this time his touch was one of calming. It reminded John of things like summer skies, warm tea (because he had tried it once on a whim and found it quite pleasant), soft feathers and crackling fireplaces.

Reluctantly, he could feel his resolve crumbling. Part of it he knew was just his Father's  _presence._ It was extremely difficult to argue with God, and not just because he could destroy you with a well-placed look or have you transported to the North Pole with a wave of his hand.

No.

It was the fact that you looked into those eyes and saw that he knew every thought in your head, every tidbit of knowledge in everyone's mind, every single awful thought that you've ever possibly conceived.......

Yet he still had the hope that you would achieve your greatest potential.

 

“I'm sorry. I know you do not play the waiting game well.” And then in a smaller voice, one that sounds achingly childish and fragile, the freckled boy mumbled against the sleeve of his jacket as he rubs at his eyes tiredly.

“John....Do you love me?”

 

The angel started in surprise at the question, cocking his head to the side wearily in confusion. Trying to read the motives behind that shy query. His tone was one of faint amusement and disbelief, as if God had said something incredibly stupid but somehow endearing. The strawberry-blonde shifted in his swing, fingers flexing uneasily in their grip about the chains. In some ways, John saw a ridiculous amount of Sherlock in those restless movements. He also saw his Chosen in the fact that his Father had to actually  _ask_ such a question, as if he was afraid that someday he would wake up and find that this entire universe was just one strange dream. That he really was a child, or an old man, waking up in a lonely four-poster bed to another dreary day of meaningless classes or bingo.

An illusion.

An uncertainty.

 

“Of course I do. Every angel is  _compelled_ to love you, and even if I wasn't, you're the best Dad I've ever known. Why wouldn't I love you?”

 

Then he was reaching out to stroke the small boy's hair, even though most angels would see it as an extremely rude thing to do. John knew however, possibly better than most, that it was more offensive to his Father for people to constantly put him on a pedestal, never to have contact and never to know someone personally. For a God was meant to view the world with detached emotion and cold calculation, and at first that had been how the world had been run. However, his Father's greatest weakness and greatest strength (at least he thought so anyway) was that he had never been able to fully wrench himself from the instinct to personalize things. He could not be impersonal, because when he looked into a person's face he saw their entire lives, all that their lives  _could_ be, and what their lives will  _become._ Yet John could see that it hurt him, killed him a little more and more each time he looked into that fast swirling vortex of emotion and reached out a hand to keep some poor sod from drowning.

Each life he saved took a little piece of himself.

God's answer to his question is cryptic, murmured huskily under his breath.

  
  


“It's happened before..... That those I've tried to protect stopped loving me. Began to resent it...”

 

And for that, John has no words of comfort. Because it's true, and everyone is aware of the person who resented more than anyone. He gently pressed a soft kiss to the temple of the boy's forehead, rising from his swing gently.

  
  


“That wasn't your fault.” The angel tried to reassure, but God's smile was a ruthless baring of teeth. A physical manifestation of agony. It looked so strange on such a young face that John found himself frightened just a little by the expression.

 

“Oh but it  _was_ John. That's the worst part about  _being_  God. When things go wrong, the only one you can blame is yourself....”

 

John's voice was certain of himself, sure in its tone and unbending. Disarmingly childish in its words, giving away how utterly naïve and yet utterly  _kind_ the young angel could be. God thought that he was having an especially good day, the day he decided to create someone like John. Yes, and Sherlock too, putting them as a pair had been a wonderful idea.

Even if it came with challenges.

 

“Well,  _I_ will never hate you.” John declares with finality, spreading his wings as dawn spreads over the horizon.

 

His silhouette was an image of budding strength, wings hinting at power that will emerge in the years to come. Despite the grey mark that threatened to spread like a cancer, he spoke of potential more than anything. The potential Sherlock had locked inside of him, that incredible ticking mind that could either win the race or destroy itself in a perilous quest to  _know._ And though John was frustrated and scared and uncertain of the future to come, he  _trusted_ his Father. That loyalty shone like quicksilver in his deep blue eyes, making the freckled boy's chest tighten painfully.

If only the future wouldn't tear that loyalty to shreds.

Destroy it forever.

He could see it now, the moment when it would end.

In all possible futures, it ended. Strangled until lying broken and lifeless on the ground.

The worst part being, he would not be strong enough to stop it.

There was a way..... but he would never be able to do it.

Sherlock needed John.

Even though they were like Gasoline and a lit match, there was no other way. It was painful sometimes, how the universe demanded some things at times.

Certain key points must be connected, certain tragedies must occur. A balance.

He just wished desperately sometimes that his  _children_ didn't have to become part of that balance. That game of good and evil. It was the cost.

The cost of living.

Yet God had long ago given up trying to reveal his premonitions to others, so he merely smiled at the angel, who grinned crookedly back.

 His thoughts lingered with John even as the angel took to the air, dipping up into the cirrus clouds before vanishing in the early morning sky. He maintained the smile and the jaunty wave until he was certain he wouldn't be seen, letting the forced joyous expression slip away like a well-worn mask. His fingers curled into his hands as he lowered his arm, tightening about his wrist as his nails dragged red marks across the skin that wasn't even really his own. He’d done this before.

Thought these words for someone else.

**_Goodbye son......_ **

And he slumped into the swing-set, shoulders setting as the little boy's jaw hardened into that of a man far too old to be so small, and far too tired to be in charge of anything.

The trees were dark, shadowed by dawn's approach. They casted malevolent forms on the playground sand, and a cold chill crept into the air. The boy's hands tightened around the chains of the swing, the gears creaking eerily in the silence. The wind picked up, ruffling his hair and moaning lowly, setting the entire park afire squeaking joints and rocking wood. God allowed this for a little while longer, then his breath came out sharply in an irritated sigh.

Always theatrical.

 

“Haven't you grown tired of this little show of power by now?”

 

Almost negligently, the boy raised a hand, and the wind came to a halt. Everything stopped rattling, and silence stretched louder than any scream. There was a pause, and then a low, dark chuckle.

From the dark line of trees, a pair of dark eyes glittered. The voice that spoke from the shadows was low, playful, but not the kind of playful that one would want their children to be around. Instead, it was a cruel sort of amusement, like it belonged to the sort of person who might burn small animals under a magnifying glass for fun.

The kind of playful that broke things.

  
  


“Playing favourites again Daddy? Tsk. Tsk. You'd think you'd have learned by now....”

 

Wearily, God allowed himself to transform into an old man, long white beard shimmering like quartz in the dim light. However, he didn't wear a robe; instead he had a plain jacket and jeans, looking quite homeless and yet still managing to look regal in his attire.

Somehow graceful.

In his fingers, a cigarette materialized, and he brought the filter to his lips tiredly even as he spoke. The shadowy eyes blinked, disappearing only to reappear to his left faster than any Human could possibly move. The old man didn't blink when his cigarette alit unbidden, glowing with strange blue flame before he inhaled, making a perfect smoke ring as he let his lips part in an exasperated sigh. He unerringly glared at a copse of rose bushes, flicking his ashes onto the sand before taking another drag.

  
  


“Could you not? I know how you like your games, but this is tedious. I have more important things to attend to after all....”

 

A cackle, light and seeming to echo from everywhere and yet nowhere at once. The voice was amused as it breathed by his ear, purring silkily like the lilt of a serpent.

  
  


“Now, now Father. Why the cold shoulder? Is your favourite little  _Fallen Angel_  no longer worth your time?”

 

With the stony silence that comment receives, the voice barked a harsh laugh. God refused to turn and look at his shoulder, where a chin rests. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a constantly changing aura, faces blurring together in a horrendous painting of agony and suffering. All of the sins of Humanity, madness flickering a lightning-quick slide-show of Earthly pain. The old man didn't even turn when a hand, made of ragged shadow, reached out and swiped the cigarette from him, the sound of a deep breath being drawn and smoke being breathed onto the back of his neck acridly.

  
  


“Smoking is a filthy habit you know.” The voice says conversationally, ignoring the sullen silence on the end of his companion. The light was returned to God's fingers almost gently, pausing to stroke his shoulder, picking away an invisible speck on his collar. “Something I'd expect myself to be into of course, but not you Mr. Goodie two shoes. I simply  _love_ my little vices, but you'd know that. The  _pure_ things in life are only fun because you can corrupt them.....”

 

God's voice was level, but there was a crackling in his voice as he drily asked, “Why are you here Lucifer? Is there a  _point_  to this meeting?”

 

The answer was predictably obtuse, and of course soaking in false courtesy. It grated on God's nerves, which were already frayed. When these meetings occurred old memories that he usually kept locked away tend to resurface, and now his fists clenched. The only sign that inside his anger was twisting and bubbling tightly into a cold knot of fury.

The Devil sounds bored, but there is still an element of teasing. Of torment.

 

“What  _point_ is there to  _anything_ people do? Is there a  _point_ when you lie to your little angel and tell him that everything is going to be  _fine?_ Is there  _merit_ in the action of two people  _pretending_ they can stand each other when in reality they don't want to die alone?”

 

At the mention of his dishonesty the man's shoulders tensed, a lion-like growl that couldn't possibly be even remotely Human swelling deep in his chest and rumbling into the night air. For a moment, those lavender eyes sparked gold.

A warning of what lurked under the mild-mannered exterior.

 

“Oooh. There's the monster  _I_ remember all those years ago. The destroyer of  _cities_ , the man who watched Pompei  _burn_. You know what I find ironic? That I'm seen as the villain, when I've only ever killed  _ten_ people directly. Yet you can order the burning of an entire city, and the angels all make popcorn and watch in wonder. What's the matter? You don't like it when I talk about your new  _pet?_ ”

 

Those dark eyes glittered, and a Chesire-like grin spread slowly across the Devil's face. God felt it, even though he didsn't see it. There was a time when that smile made his own twitch in return. It once had the ability to light up a room.

_Lucifer._

**_Light._ **

 

He had once shined so brightly.....

But the memories come back, and he shut them away and resisted the urge to shudder in revulsion.

 

“You know the law. What was a Darkling doing hanging around one of  _mine?_ Did you think I wouldn't notice something so foul?” He wrinkled his nose in distaste, and Lucifer laughed. His tone was filled with mirth.

 

“You caught me! Call me curious. It was just having a look-see for me, I wanted to know what new poor thing you were trying to Mother to death. Not very interesting really, but his  _Chosen...._ ” Silence resounded in which there is the audible noise of a tongue running over teeth in desire. “Well he  _is_ a pretty little thing.... So much  _hate_ that can be used..... I wonder what he would look like painted in his own angel's  _blood_ -”

 

His sentence was cut off by the resounding roar that burst from the old man's throat, except he was no longer an old man at all. Instead, a giant, snarling lion pinned the shadow to the floor, teeth bared and dripping saliva and fury as gold eyes glittered enraged. In return, the shadow man was no longer a man, and became a growling wolfhound with blood-red eyes and quivering hackles. The night air was suddenly filled with monstrous growling, massive claws and gnashing teeth.

Like the stuff of nightmares, two beasts like night and day stared at each other, silently challenging the other with their heated glares and daring the other to make the first move.

 The lion's voice was booming. His teeth were perilously close to the wolf's throat. Lucifer could feel the heat in those harsh breaths. The adrenaline made him shudder in delight.

 

**_You will not touch them!_ **

 

 _And if he comes to me?_ The wolf's crimson eyes glitter defiantly, his lips drawn back over purple gums to reveal rows of sharp teeth. _Then what? What will you do if Sherlock decides not to play in your little tea party of goodness?_

 

**_He won't. John won't let him._ **

**  
** _Like how you told_ **_me_ ** _you would never let me fall?_

 

A rumbling laugh, and as dawn painted the sky red and splashed over their clashing hides, God saw that the wolf was fading. Only an illusion of the night. His growl pitted deep in his throat and he tried to lunge, to sink his teeth into that furred neck. His teeth closed around empty air.

  
  


_**Lucifer!**_ God howled, and his cry was a mixture of betrayal and anger. Of thousands of years of torture.

 

The Devil's last words lingered in the air, a promise and a curse all at once. Haunting the park with maniacal laughter.

 

_But that's what people DO don't they? Though they don't always find God.... They irrevocably will_ **_always_ ** _cross paths with the Devil...... and it's not Lucifer.... Not any more, dearest Daddy. It's Jim._

_Jim Moriarty._

 

 


	9. The Victor Of Love Part~ 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I had to break this chapter up into three parts. Apologies, second half will be along like tomorrow or the day after! it just wound up being longer than I thought it would and... yeah :S  
> song is astronaut by simple plan...
> 
> This chapter is now edited.

 

 

 

  
_Can anybody hear me?_  
_Or am I talking to myself?_  
_My mind is running empty_  
_In the search for someone else_  
_Who doesn't look right through me._  
_It's all just static in my head_  
_Can anybody tell me why I'm lonely like a satellite?_

  
_I'm deafened by the silence_  
_Is it something that I've done?_  
_I know that there are millions_  
_I can't be the only one who's so disconnected_  
_It's so different in my head._  
_Can anybody tell me why I'm lonely like a satellite?_

 

_Now I lie awake and scream in a zero gravity_  
_And it's starting to weigh down on me._  
_Let's abort this mission now_  
_Can I please come down?_

 

 

It was strange, how a fence could mark the line between something as complex as the difference between childhood and adulthood. A gate somehow changed you significantly, made you more or less responsible over the span of a few simple months in the eyes of society. You were seen as responsible, as guilty of maturity. It was a word that made a person want to sneer, to shy away and hide. 

Fifteen-almost-sixteen year old Sherlock considered this as his hands rested on the cold links of chain, blinking in deep thought over the matter. His new uniform hugged his body tightly, figure having changed drastically over the years. No longer a small and skinny creature stuck in too-large clothes, his body over the past summers had grown into a gracefulness all its own. Passing the awkward stages of sharp angles and too-long legs in the safety of his own home was a private mercy, because now he was lithe and leonine in his movements even as he walked into the new half of the yard.

John found himself staring in amazement over it even as he was walking beside him. He could Hardly recognize the little boy that had once been there in those razor-edged cheekbones and piercing blue-green eyes. It seemed like the angel had only blinked to shield his eyes from the warm summer glare and his wings had suddenly lost all of their downy fluff, shaping themselves into a powerfully angular shape like a bird of prey's. They had also changed colours yet again, the blues and greens shifting, the grey spreading. It was no longer just a feather, it was a canvas. Shades of muted grey and browns, the shades of someone in hiding. Of course, the reasons for the change were many mixed events coming together. As the years past since the incident in the rain, Mycroft had been slowly teaching Sherlock in the art of becoming unseen, of slipping into the crowd and turning invisible. It was the only way the elder Holmes decided he could keep his younger brother safe. If he kept him away from his true nature, no one would know Sherlock's true, chaotic side . He kept his promise to the dark-haired boy he barely knew this way, showing his brother how to pretend to be normal. Even though his younger brother often struggled, screamed against the change, it occurred. It wasn't like Mycroft's where he could fully dislocate himself and create a crystal tower. No.

It was an attempt to drown the constant spark of feelings, of _seeing_ everything that people hid in their deceptive little masks, of being able to go inside their funny little heads and take their dirty secrets and lay it bare to the world. Killing it made Sherlock numb. Proof of that marked his feathers, unseen by the mortal world but recognized as a mix of depression, numbness and pain every time John stared at his reflection. It mottled together like militant camouflage. The angel wasn't sure he liked it. He much preferred the bold and prideful hues, though there _was_ still the faintest glow of emerald lingering under the surface, blurred by the duller shades.

When John told his Father this, the immortal's face would often scrunch in sympathy. He'd give quiet assurances that things would get better, and John waited impatiently and hoped. In one way, he was possibly right and yet horribly, horribly wrong.

 

The fact was, Sherlock had become so used to pretending to fly under the radar, to being small and insignificant and annoying to others. So it came as a complete surprise when he returned to school that he didn't even realize his new body now _demanded_ attention. In _his_ head he was unnoticeable, alike to all the other students that he now lost himself in. Yet to everyone else he was most _definitely_ someone noteworthy. Lost in his own mind, he didn't see the girls that once mocked him now glanced at him with lowered lashes and breathless giggles, or that the guys who once merely hated him looked at him with something akin to envy. John saw that day, and wasn't sure how he felt about it.

There was the strangest prickling just at his shoulder blades, right beneath the scapula where soft feather became sinewy muscle. Eyes seemed to brand him, locking him into place so that despite Sherlock's outwardly distracted façade he squirmed instinctively. Those eyes darted about, meeting each gaze until they lowered and looked away, shooting each one down with cold iciness. It wasn't _just_ that Sherlock had become attractive of course, the older teens had all heard of Mycroft Holmes, who had graduated some years before and was just finishing up Uni. His legend was enough to draw fascination, wonderment at just what his younger brother would be like.

It was in this way that Sherlock without having to even lift a finger gained a reputation. A slightly different one than 'freak' as in elementary school, but one equally unpleasant.

_'Mysterious Freak.'_

_'Possibly important freak.'_

_'I should pretend to like him freak.'_

True to his nature of course, the teen noticed _that_ much.

 

As the first week of school went by, he stubbornly refused to become involved with anyone. Curling up into the back desks of his classes, he studied forensics and chemistry from his own textbooks and only spoke up to insult/correct the teacher occasionally (much to their Guardian's chagrin as they often told John off later on after class for not stopping him). In fact to the outside world it became quickly known that the darkly-curled teen was more than a little bit of an ass, brilliant for sure, but unbelievably pompous and sharp-tongued. Those green eyes became known to be capable of skinning a person alive, and the few girls that were brave enough to at least attempt flirting with him usually found themselves in tears by the end of their confrontations.

Privately, John preferred it that way.

He would be loathe to admit it and ashamed, but he didn't like the way that the majority of the female populace began to view his Chosen as a prize. He saw wings flutter pink and angels smile indulgently when Sherlock directed his cool gaze at their Chosen's pretty faces, but they almost always wound up flushing darkly when the young teen opened his mouth and effectively cut their disillusions down to size. Though the angel personally felt it was twisted and _wrong_ that he didn't want Sherlock to find that kind of happiness in someone else, he couldn't help it.

If he knew that he was jealous, he might've also been able to identify the other emotion that sprung up in long hours when the moonlight hit Sherlock's alabaster skin and made him luminescent as he leaned over an experiment, or when he smiled to himself with that pure and crooked upturning of bowed lips as he played the violin. He might've been able to ask his Father why he was feeling jealousy at all when it was supposed to be a Human emotion. Instead he chalked it up as his Bond's fault, territoriality kicking in because he was unused to dealing with social situations.

So John guiltily was rewarded with warmth that fluttered deep in his chest whenever his Chosen turned someone else's advances away, and Sherlock quickly decided that secondary education was a boring and tedious matchmaking service that he was forced to be a part of. He would have no part in something as ridiculously boring as _sentiment_ over another person. Intimacy he was certain was only a destructive illusion of a drug that had no real redeeming qualities. A crutch for the mentally weak to assure dissuade themselves from the harsh truth that everyone was alone in this world.

 

 

That year passed almost halfway in this fashion, nearly driving the teen to consider what it would be like to die from boredom. He was almost considering if slitting his own wrists wouldn't be a less painful way to go (much to John's panic and distress, because it was really hard to tell with Sherlock what was just idle speculation and what was serious thought) when something happened to his Chosen. Of course, being the way things were, it wasn't what you'd expect.

There were no shy flirtations, no blushing moments where his Chosen hid himself away and thought confusedly about a person. Not a moment of sweet candied hearts or perhaps a moment where the world stopped spinning. No, that would have been too fluffy, too _domestic_ for Sherlock Holmes. It was instead the sharp tang of cigarettes, and the crisp perfume of leather and gasoline that caused his Chosen to stop reading from where he sat on in the shadow of the bleachers of the rugby field and focus on another Human Being's face. The whisper of something _wicked._

 

Victor Trevor; a senior and all-around trouble maker by nature, could usually tell when someone had the potential to be _interesting._ One could even be pressed to say it was his talent. A skill earned from having a father that was a lawyer and a mother that worked as a cop, he could almost always tell when someone was putting up a front or a bluff. As a result, he noticed when those blue-green eyes stealthily flicked upwards from their book, how the subtle shift from true indifference to false indifference made the teen's body twitch ever so slightly. He saw it even as he saw those dark curls turn away, an amusing little scowl blinking on the sophomore's features, young and just finishing year eleven he guessed. Taking one last drag of his light and crushing it under his heel, Victor paced forward tentatively, lips parting in mild interest as to _why_ Sherlock Holmes of all people would be looking at _him_ that way.

Of course, Tanner noticed his friend's distraction and stopped what he whatever he was going to say to see where the teen's ocean-blue eyes were directed, wondering what poor unlucky victim had gotten caught in the cross-hairs of his buddy's interest and paled a little, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Uh-uh man. No. Don't do it. His brother will find you and _murder_ you, if he doesn't do it first.”

 

Victor scoffed at the empty threat. Mycroft Holmes hadn't been seen since he left for Uni. It was unlikely he even still lived at home, knowing how much of a bloody achievement whore he had been. He had only been a squirt of course when _that_ man still ran the school, but he had never had the bad fortune to actually see him. Frankly part of him doubted that kind of iron-clad monarchy could even _exist_ in a school. After all, people were always telling him that belief in a higher power was foolish. It seemed stupid that people would murmur this even while letting themselves being lead like sheep by men in powerful positions. He flicked the ember of his cigarette onto the grass, even while keeping a half-eye out for a teacher to come and tell him off. Though the lunch break usually was a safe time to take a light, one could never be too careful. After all, he had to keep at least _some_ sort of clear record. He'd be graduating soon.

“Look,” Tanner tried to persuade futilely “I know you got a thing for dark curls and the strong-silent type, but listen to me. This is a _bad. Idea._ Abort your crazy-ass mission and let's go get a sandwich and forget about the school _freak_.Full-stop.” At that, his friend chuckled and carded a hand through his blonde hair, dropping his cigarette to crush it under his heel. His answer makes the dark-haired boy roll his eyes and groan in defeat.

“ _Do_ shut up.”

“Whatever. You're on your _own._ ”

He grumbled, dropping his own light as he was unwilling to fight over it. Victor in the end would be Victor, they hadn't been friends since nursery school without the teen realizing at least that much. His angel Marta merely shook her head at the ways of teenagers, her mousy gold-brown wings spreading as she and her Chosen take off towards the cafeteria. Of course, John noticed the angel before the Human. It had become habit for him to analyze the soul before the person, and with one such as Victor's soul, it was impossible not to stare. She looked Caucasian, blonde hair chopped unevenly and coloured with multiple streaks of surreal reds, pinks and blues. She was bare, smoothly pale skin glittering luminously as if lit from within. Yet John got the distinct impression that it wasn't so much because she couldn't be bothered to not have clothes materialize as it was a conscious decision, judging from the earrings that glinted at her ears and the way streaks of paint lined her body in brilliant neon colours. Her wings were bright, almost blinding, and in that itself was a story.

An angel's wings were often painted just with similar shades. Tones of blues, shades of earthy greens, or if they were boisterous sunny yellows and pinks. Instead John saw feathers that were touched with every colour imaginable, like a tapestry weaving the most interesting stories in lines of fairy lights that pulsated and glittered in the warm sun hypnotically. They were not feathery either, which happened sometimes if the personality of the Human was extremely impressionable and affected by events of their past. Instead they are butterfly-like, insect in nature and veined through with iridescent black. The angel's mouth must have been hanging open in shock at such a strange-looking creature, because he saw her smirking lips twist further upwards even as her Chosen stalked forward. Her voice was coy. Silly, how John felt a strange heating in his cheeks and a burning in his ears.

“See something you like?”

She grinned further at the angel's scowl and at the defensive position he took in front of his Chosen.

 

Unaware of the conversation happening beside them, Sherlock dutifully ignored the shadow that cast itself on the page of his book. In fact, if one didn't see how John's wings twitched violently with the heat of being regarded one wouldn't even know if the young teen saw him. Victor's sea-blue eyes regarded the complicated formulas and patterns on the pages thoughtfully, scanning the intricate numbers and codes and marvelling at how he couldn't understand a single one of them. He was not exactly stupid, in fact he received many awards for being an intelligent young man, but this...This was something else entirely. The rumours apparently about Sherlock's genius then were all too true. It only made Victor even more fascinated.

“Interesting read?”

Immediately, the reply was already perfectly pictured in Sherlock's head. Snapping and burning in the synapse-filled space of his mind like a light. He could feel it on his tongue, the option to push the new stranger away.

_Not to you, obviously._

However, years of beatings and bruises have cowed the teen's tongue into silence, and he merely chose to ignore the honey-haired older boy before him as he flipped the page. A ghost that only spoke to survive. When Victor looked into that face as he sat himself on the heated metal of the bleachers, he sensed there was something drumming away behind that ice. He caught a glimpse of it just for a moment, and liked what he saw. Sherlock caught the way the teen's pink tongue darted a stripe across his lips in a inquiring sort of way, and inwardly wondered if now _boys_ were going to start flirting with him. Well, at least it would be marginally more interesting. 

John scowled at that thought that passed, fighting the familiar surge of possessiveness flutter inside of him. As if sensing what just passed between them, the rainbow-hued angel laughed in a bell-toned sound of tumbling waterfalls. She sat herself down primly beside John, letting her wings stretch luxuriously from her spine. He tried very hard not to focus on those membrane-like extensions of her body because it was rude to stare, but he couldn't help it as she seemed to have very little sense of _personal space._

“What does he want?”

The angel asked lowly, shooting a pointed look at Victor. Beside him she slid a little bit closer, eyeing him warmly from under blonde lashes. Her eyes were the colour of sapphire's, piercingly bright and sparkling. They made John highly uncomfortable because like Sherlock's they looked _through_ things rather than _at_ them. Instead of answering directly, she introduced herself with a knowing smile.

“Name's Mary.”

 

As she spoke, so did Victor to Sherlock.

“So I heard you're the kid who made Emily Parkins cry last Valentine's Day. Classy. I always like to make my heartbreaking refusals on days of importance too.”

Sherlock personally wondered why he hadn't yet made _Victor_ cry, considering he was irritating him. He just wanted to _read_ and be left alone, was the world really so boring as to try and demand he have some semblance of a relationship? Not interested. Not even when those sea green eyes glinted with a knowing smile, as if his usual mask of cold indifference wasn't working on him. Strange. Data to be retrieved from Victor Trevor. None found.

_Delete._

His Mind-Palace attempted to move on, but the slow smooth voice beside him carried on. It was testing the edges of the _supposedly_ calm Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock found himself hyper-aware of the way the teen's hands tapped on the metal of the bleachers by him, drumming a rhythm that left itself ringing in his ears. As persistent as when his thoughts filled him, tore at him. Except it doesn't hurt, it's constant but almost therapeutic in nature. Absent of killing instinct, unlike his mind. However, he was still annoyed.

 

_Push a little more. I want to see that wonderful spark turn into a flame._

And John if he could have heard Victor's thoughts would have thought him _insane_ for what he said next.

“You're really bad at doing that.”

Sherlock for one moment forgot his mask. It slipped as his head jerked up, green eyes darkening in instant challenge even as his chin lifted in defiance. His eyes flashed in their depths intelligence, annoyance, and so much _pride_ that it was a wonder that the boy had kept under the radar as a rude but quiet _child_ for so long. Many words for him surfaced in the older teen's mind in that instant when he saw that look, but among them was the exact opposite.

_**Yes.** _

_**I knew it.** _

_**Dangerous.** _

 

 _Perfect,_ was Victor's thought.

He hadn't had a dangerous one in a while. This was the thing with Victor, he was what Mycroft would call a _risk taker._ He loved it. The sensation of finding a new flame. There were so many kinds to choose from, and the teen was an addict in more ways than one. In Sherlock's eyes he saw the same hunger, carefully hidden as if someone once had the audacity to tell him that want was indecent or abnormal. Unsafe would have been the word Mycroft used as he lectured Sherlock about these kinds of people, demanding he not become one of them for the sake of his sanity.

“Not good at what?”

Sherlock demanded, realizing at the last moment that he sounded sharper than he had wanted to and cursing mentally. He carefully let his features reassemble themselves into a mask of indifference, remembering what his elder brother told him in all of the practices and training they competed in against each other during long hours of boredom.

_Caring is not an advantage._

_If you show your opponent you care about their words you ask for fights._

 

The teen's face was bright, deceptively open and warm. He leaned into one hand even as he searched in his pockets for a cigarette, making a pleased sound when he found one and placed the filter between his lips. He spoke around it, the words coming as a mumble.

“At acting _detached._ Also your calculations seem wrong to me... but I've always been a lousy chemist.”

He passed judgement with scorn, as if he were poison. Something to be mocked, and Sherlock instinctively bristled, preparing for a fight. Instead he was offered a cigarette, to which he blinked in surprise, the words blurting from his mouth in a stunning display of being caught off-guard.

“I'm too young.”

Victor's snort is amused.

“Don't be _dull._ Really, all that acting has you pretending to be far stupider than I suspect you are.”

 

Sherlock, ever expressionless, hid his tentative curiosity even as he accepted the cigarette. He lay it down beside him instead of placing it in his mouth though, despite the sparking fascination he felt with having it between his fingers. It offered a strange sort of comfort that confused John greatly and forced his own anger to dissipate somewhat as he stared hard at the angel sitting beside him. She stared back easily, seeming much more...... _personal_ than any of the other Guardian's he had ever met before. It was strange, and he jerked away when she lifted a hand as if to touch his wings. There was an instinctive _“Don't.”_ already halfway to his lips before he realized she was just reaching out to touch his arm. It was a strange sensation, to be touched by someone he didn't know. Kind of tingly, sending nervous bubbles of energy sizzling into John's blood like carbonated soda. When Mary's palms spread against his dark brown jumper then lifted away, he saw emerald green had materialized and stained her skin. Reaching up, she ran the colour down her arm, creating bold streaks and adding to her living canvas. She smiled at John's confused expression.

“....Wha-”

“It's a very selective power John. Rare. I have the ability to copy another's essence, record it in a sense on my skin. I can show a person their true _colours._ ”

She held up her palm, where the pulsating, almost radioactive-looking green couldn't help but remind John of his Birthday. He shivered, unsure of what he saw in that piercing hue. He wondered to himself if Victor's true essence was hidden under all that paint, cloaked in the depth of the complicated colours that revealed everything and nothing at all simultaneously.

“Personally,” Victor continued, letting a perfect smoke ring billow from his lips and drift into the air

“I think being normal is overrated. What do you think?”

Again, the sharp return worked its way to Sherlock's lips. He replied in deadpan honesty before he could stop himself. Which was frustrating. Frustrating indeed.

“Wouldn't know. Most people don't call me 'normal'.”

 

Victor's grin was like an itch begging to be scratched. It tickled the teen's mind and made him scowl further. He could decide if he wanted to shove Victor like a petulant child or reach out to snatch the light from his lips. Sherlock wondered what the release of chemicals felt like in the brain, if it is was relieving as many people claimed. He'd considered it at times, but until this year Mycroft has always been too close. His brother had been bearing down upon him like a greedy cat sitting on top of a hoard of warm blankets. A safety net whether Sherlock wanted one or not, he protected him from his idle curiosity. Except here was this teenager, sparking it and insane enough as it seemed, _encouraging_ it's use.

It was enough to make him almost... interested.

“What do they usually call you then?”

Victor asked. The darkly-curled teen rolled his eyes, as if the insult was beneath him.

“Freak. Usually.”

“Accurate enough I suppose. I like freaky though.”

There's no pitying look, no attempts to make him feel better. Just valid truth. Sherlock found a smile almost working to his lips, and he surprised himself when he murmured in a challenging way “And what do they call _you_?”

More smoke rings. They drifted and twisted with their sharp flavour up over Sherlock's head, floating out towards the rugby field. It made him think of the circumference of a circle, and he wondered if he could use the approximate size of a smoke ring to calculate the entire area of the yard. His restless mind was already drawing up the rough mathematics for it even as Victor grinned and responded easily.

“Usually slut. Man-whore. Creative things like that. People mock those who are able to get lucky.”

At that Mary snorted, drawing herself up primly and crossing one leg over her knee in disdain. Even though Sherlock didn't see it he seemed to sense it, because the deduction comes from his lips that comes next is involuntary but accurate.

“They're wrong.”

A long pause in which Victor flicked a bit of ash into the grass. His sea-blue eyes were unreadable as he looks long and hard at that pale, strange face. His tone was carefully neutral and collected

“They are? And what makes you say that?”

Mycroft's voice suddenly rang in the teen's head.

_Do not let your opponent become aware of what you see. Showing you care is not an advantage._

 

Sherlock's hands curled together involuntarily, teeth snagging on his lip even as his spine stiffened with suppressed arrogance. He _knew._ He just _did_ and the constant insistence that he hide _why_ he knew suddenly seemed long and arduous and irritating. He was so _tired_ of holding back his observations, every bone in his body screamed for the information to be released from him like confetti shot from a cannon. He was so _tired_ of drifting...John winced at the analogy, the thought of Sherlock's brains being laid out before anyone other than him seeming dangerous and strange. Yet he'd been disconnected, uncaring for so long, even this vague fascination felt like a river falling over his wings after years of dry desert. It was like he'd silently asked John, begging him to let him go. To trust him.

_Can I please connect?_

_Do I have that right any more?_ It was a thought that was childish, but Sherlock clung to it nevertheless. 

Victor however answered for him, sensing the teen's hesitation.

“Go on. Enlighten me. I promise I don't bite..... _much._ ”

 

Then, like a dam bursting, Sherlock erupted in calculations. It was as if he didn't have the strength any longer to stay silent. What came from him is in a cracked and rushed voice, rough from disuse was nothing but honesty, and it cracked in the air like a whip rearing its head.

“They're wrong. Though your clothes speak of a player the cuff of your sleeve is clean and neat, albeit tainted by tobacco smoke. Most people with adulterer-like behaviour also have an indecent love for internet porn, and yet save for the obvious fact that you are an average teenage male there is no signs of excessive behaviour in that area. As well you have shown interest judging from the slight dilation of your pupils, but it's not on a purely sexual level. Players don't invest in any other kinds of connection, for them it's an addiction like a junkie. You seem to be genuinely interested in what I'm saying, which it's amusing in itself considering you were also aware of my status as a freak when you came and sat down. You show an overwhelming amount of calculation as you are understanding every word I am saying despite the speed at which I'm saying it. Speaks of intelligence, and although that isn't a determining factor one way or the other about promiscuous habits your interest is purely the mental kind as you listen. So that means you value information over pure sexual impulse, not the mark of someone who is just looking for a one-night stand. I've also happen to glance at your other relationships in the hallway, and you seem to have the same kind of presence towards your partners. You genuinely care for all of them, still do, if the twitch of your hand just now says anything. Yet you do not wish for attachments, which is possibly why you decided to act on your interest with me. I'm detached by nature, and you are unconsciously looking for that in the significant others you look for, which is why many times your relationships do not last. This longing detachment _could_ be due to some kind of childhood trauma, but more likely it's just your personality.

You're a drifter.

Like me.

“Which is why you turn to addictive habits such as smoking and.... morphine? No, _cocaine_ to occasionally shut yourself down. Summary, you've only actually _slept_ with probably around three different people, the rest of your relationships were purely platonic. You're not a slut, you're actually just demisexual and possibly polyamorous. You _act._ ”

 

And then he gripped the side of his head, gasping as his mind recoiled from the sudden onslaught of information. Sherlock panted as if he's just run a marathon, eyes half-wild as they flicked over Victor's body, frantically searching for any further details. His ever-moving gaze was caught by that steady sea-blue one, locked wide-eyed and looking so _vulnerable._ Sherlock knew that the power was all in the other person's court, a situation in which he could not predict the outcome. He was exposed, leaving himself open and raw and at his basest instincts he prepared himself to be punched. He prepared for the verbal abuse to come, remembering how sharp it is when he doesn't shut himself off. How _loud._ He knew that this time, Mycroft might not find him in time. If Victor chose, he could end him.

John quivered, feeling like the green paint was something he'd given away was something that should never have been taken. Yet there was nothing he could do, and the angel named Mary, odd as she was just kept smiling at him. She didn't look away in disgust at the state of his wings, so muddled and dark. Nor did she ogle him either, like he and Sherlock were some sort of exotic pair on display at the circus (he had hated the circus, so many wings brushing against each other, not to mention Sherlock was busy deducing that the ringleader was having an affair with the clown). No. She just...looked. If he weren't so unused to others seeing him directly, John might even say her gaze was one of gentle admiration. Admiration of what exactly, well...

One could never know for sure.

 

Victor did none of the things Sherlock expected. He did not shout. He did not scream. He didn't do any of the immature or petty things, like go off to get his friends to try and shove Sherlock into a locker. No. He _smiled._ The grin is a feral thing, one with lots of teeth and it's completely wolfish, but Sherlock wasn't perturbed by it. He felt breathless, like he'd just been nearly drowned. There was a lightness in his chest of having something finally break _out_ from his head and out into the air. That lightness changed into an intense, white-hot pull in his gut not unlike being punched as Victor crushed his cigarette, leaning towards him in a predatory way.

“I act huh?”

He purred, and Sherlock's jaw tightened even though he was not angry. Without a bit of shame, he threw all precaution to the wind as he leaned forward as well, green eyes never having seemed so certain of themselves in years. Because though there were  _many t_ hings Sherlock doesn't understand, such as things like _sentiment_ and _love_ , he _knew_ that his observations were never, or at least very rarely, ever wrong. That fact was what in many ways kept him whole his entire life. Knowing that at the end of the day, even though there was always _something..._ he was _correct._

“Yes. You. Do.”

Victor blinked, realizing for once his bluff hadn't worked. For a moment his eyes burned with something, an unnamed emotion that had Sherlock absently wondering at how their faces were barely an inch apart and just _what_ his traitorous body is doing in response. In an instant, he was back in iron control of his impulses. 

_This is a foolish waste of time._

His gaze cooled, and the teen pulled away. Victor's eyes narrowed in response, but he reluctantly leaned back as well, sensing he would get no more in this meeting. Still, like a drug hit, seeing Sherlock finally be... _himself_ had an addictive nature. The darkly-curled teen's jaw lifted, and Victor could almost see cat-like ears pricking.

“The bell will ring soon.”

He murmured, and an instant later a distant chiming sounded.

When Sherlock looked back beside him, Victor was already walking away. The cigarette lay beside him, stark white like snow against glinting silver. Over his shoulder, the blonde teen offered one parting sentence. 

“Well then, I guess we are just both actors upon a stage!”

 _Shakespeare._ Sherlock thought petulantly, and he firmly kept the smile that wanted to come alive from surfacing on his features. He always hated Shakespeare with a passion. Still, he pocketed the cigarette. Call it morbid fascination, or maybe he was just.... sick. Twisted. It was possible. All Sherlock knew was that he was rather tired of feeling like he was floating away, tethered to nothing and no one. After all, one could only live a certain way for so long before their existence became more of a burden than a gift. John read this thought and shivered, feeling as if he were walking straight into some kind of trap. That Mary and Victor were at least fifty shades of trouble, and that it was the worst kind... that much was certain. The maddest part was that his Chosen was waltzing into it willingly.  Sherlock was all too aware of the dangers, he was just too bored to care.

John couldn't bring himself to advise against it, because he saw the alternative, and it involved a bullet to the brain or a jump off a roof to escape that maddening deprivation of thought.

 

*****

“Sherlock dear, is something bothering you?”

This had become a common question in the Holmes' house, ever since the therapist (A miss Sara Lynne) diagnosed Sherlock as having 'trust issues'. Since Mycroft's escape to Uni, Sherlock's obvious lack of friends or particularly, _ambition_ seemed to become a point of contention with Violet, her eyes gazing worriedly at the motionless form of her youngest child lounging on the sofa. Sherlock was in one of his black moods, hands folded under his chin and eyes closed, uselessly struggling with the constant clamour that rang out in his head. He looked not unlike a stone angel, minus the wings. Well, John didn't help that image he supposed as he lay on the back of the couch, grimacing at the thundering in his own mind because of his Chosen's constant stream of information. His wings were unfurled lazily, curling under Sherlock's body while the other tried to block out the harsh light from the living room lamp. The shadows of his own feathers cast lines on John's face, and he could make out the faint silhouette of Rupert hovering somewhere in the middle distance. The teenager scowled even with his eyes still screwed tightly shut, rolling over on the couch so that his back faced his Mother in typical Sherlockian fashion. She let out a long bereft sigh, hands crossing over her chest and the faintest beginnings of a lecture settling in the creases about her eyes. As usual, she seemed to scan the long list of Sherlock's issues in her head, and bring up the one that was the least importance at the moment. 

“Is this about your brother going away to school?”

 

Sherlock audibly scoffed, having over the years learnt that his Mother responded better when he at least made _some_ kind of recognition that he'd heard her. If it meant less of the long hours of therapy, and less of the complicated and often useless 'techniques' they tried to give him to relate better to the rest of the world, then he would do it, if only barely. Whereas his habit was to remain silent at school, at home it was a different matter entirely. Sherlock was vicious at home. Openly hostile like a bomb ready to go off, strung too tightly like a violin forced past its usual tuning and set to break because of the act at school. He would march home, often in pain whether from physical injury or mental, and he would shamelessly tear apart anyone within a fifty-mile radius. His Mother, despite everything, _insisted_ on talking to him during this time, as if somehow she could stop the _screeching_ inside Sherlock's mind.

 

Violet took this wordless noise somehow as encouragement to continue, building up steam for what was beginning to look like a full-blown rant. She seated herself down on the coffee table across from her son, elegant dress whispering about the meeting she had at work earlier today. Her legs crossed daintily before her, she really did  _try_ to look concerned instead of just irritated. However Sherlock learned the difference between the two long ago, so he ignored her presence stubbornly.

“You could always call him. I'm sure your older brother wouldn't mind-”

“Why would I call that fat git for?”

And then, so quiet in his thoughts that John almost didn't hear it, the sentence continued.

_He's the one that left me behind...._

“I don't know.” Violet sighed, and John thought it was a very tired sound. He was acutely aware of how Rupert lately seemed to have been getting a little slower, still graceful but not quite so lithe. The scar on his wing glinted as he stretched his feathers in suppressed irritation. “Maybe because he's your _brother_?”

Sherlock snorted, rolling over to eye his Mother with focused curiosity. His eyes blazed piercing green even as his curls hang messily in front of his face. Needed a haircut soon.

“Last time I checked blood in this family ran thinner than water. What, has he been eating all the sweets he can find and can no longer support his weight long enough to get to a _phone_?”

His Mother rolled her eyes, apparently giving up on the attempt to reach out to her son.

“Teenagers.”

“...Piecroft...” Sherlock murmured viciously against the pillow he crushed over his head. The faint hope that someday he might accidentally smother himself floated in his brain.

She rose with a click of her heels and turned about, heading for the other end of the room to search for her purse. Sherlock watched her as her back is turned, silently taking in information.

_Had about ten cups of coffee today. Hair bears signs of being blown by wind, so walking outside much of the day. Possibly because of the fact that her office is now across the street from a little café, which would explain the borderline caffeine poisoning. Stress from work, most probably. At this rate her heart-_

“Are you _sure_ nothing's wrong?”

Violet whispered, her eyes lowering to the floor. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, frustrated that his train of thoughts had been sidetracked. He could see sentiment and it was  _annoying_ how it was written all over her face, because he didn't understand it. He never had. Even though his Mother didn't hit him, or call him a freak, or spit on him he could not stand the way her eyes look at him so piteously from underneath those pale lashes. He twisted himself up from the couch, stomping off to his room despite her call for him.

“Sherlock! We're family! _Please-_ ”

The slamming of his door quaked through the house. Final. Unyielding.

 

Violet shut her eyes as if she'd been struck, reaching blindly for the crystal decanter of brandy on top of the china cabinet. She muttered a low oath to herself even as she poured herself a glass, tipping almost half of the burning liquid back in one acrid gulp. A thousand images of herself stared back at her in the cold glass, and her heart beat too quickly in her chest. She could feel the pulse, humming tensely just behind her eyelids. Her head tilted back towards the ceiling as if in defeat. John noticed with a frown just before he gets up to follow his Chosen how pale Rupert seemed. His hand was hovering at the old scar that runs jagged like a canyon across his feathers, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. However he had lived long enough in this house to know that he will not get an answer if he asked, and so he quietly allowed himself to fade away to the room upstairs. 

Sherlock's violin shrieked, abused by angry hands that trembled with as much fury as pain. The pounding in his head refused to let up, it tore at him. Accused him. He couldn't stop it, and neither could John. It looked like a night where they were going to drown in the thunder. Soon Violet was subjected to the muffled and low screams of her son in agony. It was nothing new, and she merely downed the rest of her drink and shuddered at the keening decibels of it. It echoed in the house like a wraith, and the sad part was that it didn't scare her. Not any more. It had become too common-place. Too much of a regular occurrence for her to be afraid. Soon it would end, and soon Aldrin would be home. It was a small, cruel comfort and she knew it was twisted in nature, how she took hope in it. Yet Violet had lived for many years around the Holmses, and she was no longer concerned with black and white. Right and Wrong. That's what living with people like them did to you, they turned your world from simple to complicated shades of grey and everything-in-between. Most of the time, she _still_ loved it.  _God_ , she did.

She loved her husband and loved her children, even though they were most definitely broken somewhere. Special but oh so _shattered_ on a level she couldn't begin to comprehend or account for. Perhaps if she had been more attentive, she might have been able to have stopped it...She hated herself for it, hated that she couldn't bring herself to be a better mother. That she couldn't understand either of her sons, but still loved them hopelessly anyway. Her reflection stared back at her, a silent company. Rupert flexed his wings and frowned, lost inside the waves of his Chosen's reminiscing.

 

*****

Sherlock floated.

Like an astronaut in space, he drifted in the stars of his head, in the inky darkness. It was always like this, this vague static in his head that never shut off. No chance to call for help, no way to escape. It would come for him always, inevitably. Nobody could ever save him, how could they when the entire battle was in the confines of his own mind? Untethered, he'd float for hours. Always half-wondering what would happen if he screamed, half-wishing he would never wake up. When he drifted, there was at least a certain lonely level of soothing comfort. His thoughts would display themselves before him, lay themselves bare. He understood himself in the darkness, understood what was important and what wasn't. He could filter out the meaningless noise, the drabble that shot across his Mind-Palace like burning stars and made a mess of his organizational skills. If he were pressed, he might even describe it like flying. Alone. Eternal. Silent...Empty...

 

“ _Shh- Earth to space-cadet, come in Sherlock Holmes.-Shh”_

Victor grinned from above him, his mouth half-covered as he made radio-wave noises on the back of his palm and Sherlock blinked and realized that the book that was in his hands had been swiped.

“Give it back.”

The older teen braced one foot on the bleachers, rocking on his heels as his blonde curls glimmered in the sunlight. His chin slightly tilted, Sherlock found that his silhouette blocked out the sun. He was forced to squint up into those sea-blue eyes, hand reaches in vain for his copy of  _The Science Behind Forensics._

“You know, _most_ friends greet each other with a standard 'Hi, how are you?' before they try and maul each other's faces off in their attempts to get their personal belongings back.”

He leaned away as the younger teen surged upwards, trying to tackle Victor and get his book back. Sherlock did it without thinking, grabbing the cuff of his leather sleeve and trying to pull him forward enough that he could wrap his fingers about the spine of the cover.

“Who said anything about being your friend?” He muttered, glowering when Victor took advantage of his elevated position to lift the book higher and reach out to ruffle Sherlock's curls. Instead of answering him, the blonde teen skipped away with the book still roughly clasped to his chest, moving lithely like a little boy or a cat that caught the canary. Eyes narrowed at him suspiciously, Sherlock stands slowly. “What are you doing?” He asked, half-amused despite himself at just how _proud_ Victor looked. His rich baritone, which has come in over the past year at a strange and alarming rate, rumbled deep in the space of the field. Victor quirked a brow, sticking a pink scrap of tongue out mockingly and somewhat childishly. His eyes glittered wickedly like sapphires.

“Playing with fire.”

Then before Sherlock could read what he was going to do, Victor took off, holding the book high over his head and crowing triumphantly like a bloody maniac.

 

*****

John hadn't had to _fly_ after Sherlock for quite some time now. Sure, there were times when he had to materialize, or teleport at an extremely fast rate, but to _soar_ after him like a hurtling comet was at once invigorating as it was terrifying. His Chosen hadn't _run_ anywhere in ages, but now he tore after Victor like a shrieking train, curls blown back by the wind as he raced along the dry grass of the school yard, legs pumping rhythmically. His shouts could be heard, loud and abrasive as creative insult after creative insult left his tongue as naturally as breathing. His heart pounded in his sternum, threatening to tear itself free from the cage of bones and skin. All of it was _noise_ and _breath_ ripping itself into loud puffs of air, _sound_ and _sweat_. John struggled to catch up, wings buckling down for speed as opposed to accuracy as he haphazardly pin-wheeled across the sky. As a result he very nearly flew into a tree as Victor headed towards the edge of the school gate and into the nearby woods, hopping the fence with startling ease and leaving Sherlock swearing loudly. At the last moment John felt a tug on his arm, keeping him from decapitating himself very nearly on the branch of an oak. Mary's blonde hair blew wildly about her face, a grin torquing her lips even as she whizzed by.

“Do try to keep up!”

She laughed gaily, doing an effortless flip over the highest branches of an ash tree. John scowled, feeling an unpleasant sensation twisting in his gut. He suddenly didn't want to lose in the race of speed. Without thinking, he bore down and began to beat his wings faster. They were two invisible shadows in the sunlight, tan skin and brightly coloured wings interwoven among leaves and colour. It was a breathless chase, hands reaching out to grab at each other, only to clasp on air as at the last second the other pulled away. On and on Victor and Sherlock ran, one leading the other further away from school. Unconsciously tethering Sherlock back to the Earth.

 

*****

“I figured this would be the easiest way to ask you out on a date.”

Victor later confessed after Sherlock got close enough and angry enough to aim a well-placed kick at his kidney, effectively sending the older teen toppling and dragging the darkly curled teen down with him. The two of them lay panting harshly in the woods, their hair wind-blown and eyes wide as adrenaline ran it's last dregs through their limbs. He looks at the pale boy's scowl and grins unabashedly, waving the book weakly in his hand and shrugging. “Worked, didn't it?”

Sherlock huffed, turning to look at the sky. He hadn't realized it, but they had run so far that they were completely off the property of the school, large puffy clouds drifting lazily in the sky and rippling with the movement of the wind. His fingers curled to his chest as he stared at the azure colour, shining through the part in the leaves over their heads in sporadic bursts. It created shadows on his skin, turning his eyes from emerald green to thoughtful blue. Victor's head was tilted slightly towards him, watching the way those eyes flicked over every vein of leaf above them. Cataloguing. Analyzing.

John collapsed in the branches above them, groaning as he rubbed the pulled muscle in his shoulder. He should not have flown that fast. His entire body cursed at him. What was worse was Mary's tittering giggle, smiling above him silkily as she fluttered her wings that shone like stained glass in the sunlight. She had won the race. 

 

After a moment, Sherlock's deep voice rumbled. Quiet and yet impossible to ignore.

“Why are we here?”

Victor looked up at the sky diplomatically, sea-blue eyes shimmering in the shadow of a branch. He absently scratched at one elbow, palming his pockets for a cigarette. He startled when Sherlock's hand materialized in front of his face impatiently with the light he had given to him the other day. The older teen rolled his eyes.

“Keep that one. I've got them somewhere.....”

He let out a murmur of satisfaction when he finds the cardboard box of cigarettes, lighting his and then leaning over to light the one Sherlock hadn't used. He inhaled deeply before blowing out a puff of smoke, shrugging non-threateningly “I'm not really sure. I come here sometimes to think..... The quiet is good....” The younger teen regards him carefully, then speaks.

“That's not what I meant....”

Victor exhaled. Smoke rings came from his lips.

“I know.”

“If you know then why aren't you answering.”

“Because you already know why.”

“...”

 

Sherlock didn't answer, eyebrows lowering at being found out again. His eyes flicked over Victor's seemingly unassuming figure, trying to delve into him. Trying to see how he could somehow avoid every single defence Sherlock flung up to protect himself. The instinct to know, to rend him down to the bone and expose him as blood and flesh is sudden and strong. But these were not good thoughts, and Mycroft had told him many times that other people did not have these urges. The insistence to take things apart down to their basest elements. Instead he took a tentative drag of the cigarette, and broke into an eye-watering coughing fit. Victor laughed at him. The sound was easy and bright.

“Easy there....” He leaned over to pat Sherlock's back as he sat up and grimaced, hacking and coughing horribly.

“Thats.... horrid.”

He stated between lung-ruining pants, and the older teen smirked at him and takes another drag.

“That's the thing about cigarettes and many things. They start out feeling awful...... but it's only when you can't imagine life without them that you become truly fucked.”

Sherlock had the strange feeling what Victor is speaking about isn't necessarily all about tobacco. He also got the feeling that he understood, for a change. He understood that feeling of pain and pleasure, if nothing else. He knew the need to become an addict.

 

*****

Two months passed like the blink of an eye.

Almost every day, Victor managed to coerce Sherlock out of going to class. It was not that difficult, his marks were beyond stellar at this point and his attendance was never perfect to begin with. All it took was that warm smile and the promise of excitement and _interest_ that Victor seems to hold about him like a tangible aura and Sherlock finds he couldn't say no. His protests turned into silent requests for _more._ Wordless wishes for _I want so much more._ More tentative touches, more warm hands. More soft lips in the dark that pressed to his own and left him breathless and needy and warm. Of course, on the outside he remained stoic as ever. Victor didn't seem to take it personally, as there were times when he had 'black moods' too. Except his seemed to be spent participating in potentially life-threatening habits such as drag racing and strange drugs. Not that the younger teen particularly cared about that. After all, some of the most brilliant people in history were the most infamous. He would often sit in the background observing, telling his tentative new friend tidbits of information on other people as they roamed the streets. Revealing what he saw. It was the most relieving drug in a way, to have someone to _listen._

It was on one particular outing that they catch a cab into town and Sherlock heard about the Carl Powers case. It was all in the newspapers, and the story went that the champion swimmer had some kind of fit and drowned. Victor went along willingly when the younger teen suddenly pulled him from their leisurely stroll on the pavement and herded him like a pet towards the tube. He knew of Sherlock's fondness for crime scenes, among other things. In the end the cops wouldn't listen to the teen though, and the two were told to get lost at the edge of the yellow tape. That was a day where Sherlock actually accepted another cigarette from Victor, lighting it and scowling even as the nicotine quieted his outrage. Well, that and the fact that Victor suddenly leaned down, chastely pecking the younger teen's lips and reaching a hand down to grope the front of Sherlock's trousers like it was nothing before skipping away.  John frowned, because in the instance when their lips met, his wings cleared of their blur.  Sherlock, for all of his deductions and brilliance and acting, flushed like a school child and tried to calm the thundering that happened in his chest without his permission.

They were for just a moment a dazzling painting of the night sky. Of comets and stars drifting and tearing out in the blackness of space.

 

*****

 

“What is Victor's game?”

John once asked Mary. They sat side-by-side, now used to if not comfortable with each other's presence. Her long blonde hair draped over one shoulder, and her blue eyes met his in a wordless challenge, wings fluttering and glimmering gently in the dark. They sat on the roof of the Holmes' manor, Violet and Aldrin gone for the night. Beneath them came the sounds of the two teens chatting with each other. Sherlock laughed, and it was a warm sound that made John's chest squeeze tightly.

“What do you mean?”

She asked after a long, drawn out silence in which they regarded each other carefully.

“I mean... Does he....?”

Then the angel's throat closed tightly, a hot feeling working it's way sourly into his mouth. He stared at his hands absently, and then focused on the stripe of green paint smeared on Mary's arm. The latest in a backdrop of hundreds of colours. She seemed to sense the end to his sentence however and sighed, chin resting on one knee. Her tone was frank, honest, and her voice was low and soothing. It held in it a wisdom, a weight that until now John hadn't heard in it before.

“In his own way. Love for Victor is different.... it's..... complicated.” Then she sucked in a breath, and her wings fluttered. “Have you heard..... of Nephilim John?”

The angel's eyes narrow fractionally, and slowly he nodded once. His brows were furrowed in confusion.

“The offspring of Humans and angels, unholy and cursed. But, Victor-”

“Is not one of them.” She affirmed gently with a small smile “But his Grandmother was. Angel blood runs in his veins, even though it's been mixed. It's why our wings are... shaped differently, and why I can do some things that most angels can't...” She bit her lip then, dragging her teeth across the pink skin. “It's also why Victor can't love. At least, not in a Human way.” In her eyes there was a deep sadness. A quiet mourning that John didn't understand until she tilted her head back and looked at the stars imploringly, like they might hold the secrets to the universe. “When we were created... I was given... certain emotions that should've been given to Victor. It's not his fault, sometimes with Nephilim children a sort of..... _rejection_ occurs in the make-up of their personalities. As a result... he can't feel love on his own. Yet his Human body craves it. Demands it. He can't feel it but he'll _die_ if he doesn't experience it. Humans were never made to be alone or unfeeling John. Without me... Victor wouldn't even be able to tell his mother that he loves her in the morning. He wouldn't be able to make friends either... I'm channelling the emotion of love into him constantly.”

Her smile was ghostly, and in it John saw strain. Exhaustion. The magic being tenuously held by willpower alone. He felt his own guts twisting in slow fury.

“So you're using him.”

He growled, the words coming unbidden from his lips as he grit his teeth. His hands turned into fists, and he had to suppress the fury that made him want to attack the angel before him. Mary's features were soft in the moonlight, and both of them froze as suddenly the talking in the house became touching. Frantic, needy touching. Hands holding hands. Fingers joining together, interlocking tightly. Lips meeting. The brush of breath against breath, promising something more. It was so powerful that both of them gasped at the sensation, and Mary's eyes fluttered closed and she groaned like she'd been struck, bearing the weight of a Human being's love for another.

John saw white he was so angry, feeling betrayed. Mary looked at him in deep sadness and hung her head, burying it in her hands.

“I'm so sorry.” She shuddered, voice thick with the emotional stress of a person forced to do unspeakable things for those they loved. Her hands came to rest over her eyes, as if she could block out memories that way. She spoke like she was announcing a sentence to death. “But I've never had a choice.”


	10. The Victor Of Love Part~2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... second part is here and third part will be the final installment of this scene. Then John time! wohoo~! again, sorry I had to break this into three parts, it's just incredibly hard to cram all I needed to put into this bit without it running five thousands pages long....
> 
> Song is Love hate heartbreak by Halestorm.
> 
> Kudos/comments are welcomed and encouraged! whew now I'm tired...   
> This chapter has now been edited.

 

 

  _Between love, between hate_

_Shake the silence back but it's too late_  
_And it haunts you, and it haunts you_  
_It's a love hate heartbreak_

_This could be suicide_  
_A kiss with these red knives_  
_Why am I travelling by?_  
_I give back to you_

_Give it all away, take it all away_  
_Give it all away, take it all away_

_Try on one full size_  
_I thought boys don't cry_  
_You're my perfect lie_  
_Back to you_

 

 

John stood, suddenly unable to sit in place any longer. He felt like he needed to break something, to take hold of Mary and hit her and make her take back what she'd just said. The urge was so strong it nearly crippled him, violence tasting sour in his mouth. His wings washed over for a moment in pure, scarlet red. He loomed over Mary like a righteously furious storm, trembling in outrage so pure that from inside the house Sherlock suddenly cried out, clutching his dark curls in agony as black hatred tore through him. Victor caught him just before he fell off the bed, eyes wide as he shouted in surprise.

 “Hey kid! What's wrong?! Sherlock!” It fell on deaf ears, the teen writhing in the grip of a migraine so sudden it stole his breath and left him gasping. 

 “ _Stop it.”_

 John snarled outside, oblivious for a moment towards the pain he was causing his Chosen. Mary lowered her gaze and shrank away, tucking her knees up to her chin. Balled up defensively, her voice was raspy with emotion. She tried in vain to justify her position, weak excuses muttered without real justification. 

“You know I can't-” She began, but John stopped her before she even got started, sick of her manipulation. He was so angry he could taste iron at the back of his throat. 

 “ _I don't care. Make. It. Stop.”_

 

He took a threatening step forward, emotions running through him chaotically. He felt like if he was capable of it, he could wring that slender neck. He could imagine the way it would feel to lunge across the roof and send them both tumbling down into the grass below, bruising and breaking. It was an impulsive emotion, almost childlike in the sense that it was a new feeling that he didn't know how to handle much less stop. He trembled with the sensation, wondering at it for a moment in what could only be described as a type of shell-shock. Through it all Mary's calm eyes assessed him, her mouth a thin white line of discomfort and guilt. The long tresses of her hair shone like moonbeams in the dark.

Her voice was soft and her pupils were wide, like she was trying to calm a wild animal.

 

“You're hurting Sherlock. Please John. You need to calm down.”

There was the sound of Victor pulling Sherlock back onto the bed, his touch on sherlock's burning forehead with one hand not soothing. Instead it was enough to send shooting fury through John,tingling through his limbs like carbonated soda pop bubbles. Still Mary's voice called to the side of him that was worrying over Sherlock, hating the fact that he was hurting him, that Victor of all people was giving him more care.  Inside his head, John's instincts were screaming a cacophony of  _Wrongwrongwrongwrong._

 “Please, John.” Mary whispered, voice low and anguished. Barely more than a moan of shame towards her actions. “Let me explain.”

 

Against his will, his fists relaxed at his sides. John's wing-tips stopped quivering quite so harshly. The flavour of hot metal on his tongue cooled to ash. Mary regarded him as he forced himself to breathe, as if she were trying to find out how he could be so angry. Mary had never seen an angel forced to do breathing exercises for their fury, especially when their Chosen wasn't being physically harmed in some way. She has never seen one look at her before and see the flash of murder in their irises. Her pride, or whatever is left of it, was the only thing that stopped her from quivering like a leaf under its cloud.

 

Inside, Sherlock was groaning and clutching at his skull. He didn't know for sure what just happened, the migraine grating inside of his skull was both crippling and seemingly unending. It sharply stabbed the back of his eyelids, a somewhat familiar wave of nausea racking his figure, the kind that normally only came when his brain was too full and needed to let off steam. Except his head wasn't full, just buzzing endlessly, and he gritted his teeth in confusion as to why his body had suddenly decided to tear itself apart from the inside out. Victor sat beside him, hands running through his hair and his voice panicked under the mask of tight calm. He had seen Sherlock fall apart before. That was not his problem. This past while had shown that the younger teen at times experienced incredible pain as a price for all that he remembered and saw, the first time he witnessed it being not too long after they were kicked off of the Carl Powers case.

His problem was the fact that usually Sherlock gave ample warning time to get out of the way of the proverbial bomb. He could usually feel when one of his legendary headaches was coming on, but this seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Like a startled cat the teen curled in on himself with the pain, and Victor stood and crossed the room swiftly to turn out the lights because it was obvious by how Sherlock was squinting that they were hurting him. In the dark shadows his friend's figure trembled fragilely, seeming to shrink in size as his coltish limbs tucked themselves protectively against his body. The older teen felt a familiar tug in his chest even as his eyes glinted in the dark, which he firmly told himself was _not_ arousal at the thought of being alone with Sherlock in the dark. Right now he had more pressing concerns than his own petty sexual needs. He navigated deftly through the piles of papers and equations, hopping over a few beakers filled with questionable chemicals before seating himself back on the bed. He then took to taking the blankets off Sherlock's bed and wrapping them about the warm body beside him, swaddling him despite the weak protest of his flailing limbs until he was just a marshmallow with thick curly hair peeking out at the top. Those blue-green eyes snapped open stared at Victor in bleary confusion and surprise. Sherlock did not like being mothered. 

 “What are you-”

_“Shh.”_

 

Was the Victor's gruff answer, his scowl only just visible in the dark as he pulled and contorted Sherlock until he was lying on his side, his head tucked against his lap. He didn't fight it, but he made a soft distressed sort of noise when Victor combed his hand through his hair, as if he couldn't fathom the reason behind the boy's gentle administrations. He was used to his friend's moods and strange antics, but usually they had some kind of logic behind them. Sherlock's head was hurting, he wasn't cold or sick. There was no reason for Victor to soothe him like a child in the dark and bury him in blankets. It didn't make sense.

What also didn't make sense was the fact that the throbbing that tunnelled into his cerebral cortex like a hacksaw slowed with each passing graze of his fingers along his ear, beginning to sync itself with the absent tap of his other hand drumming against his knee. They sat and lay in heated silence, Victor's back pressed against the wall even as he stared fixedly ahead. There was a certain tension about his mouth, lines that Sherlock only saw when the older boy was thinking on something he didn't like. When he was reflecting on a past memory or forced to look ahead to a future that was less than what he wanted, Victor became brooding. It was the kind of expression that usually lead to one of Victor's 'black moods', the ones where he stalked off somewhere and smoked and went to drag races alone, leaving Sherlock lonely and feeling hatefully less than useful. Except from the light tightening of his hands in Sherlock's hair, the younger teen knew he wasn't going anywhere. In the darkness, Sherlock's voice was loud.

“What's wrong?”

 Victor's voice was low. Melodic. It carried with it a carefully balanced weight.

“It....occurs to me.... that I maybe have not been honest with myself in regards.... of our relationship....”

 The way he said it, it was like he was dancing on glass. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, his grip tightening slowly about the edges of the blanket. He kept his tone neutral.

“How so? Is that what this is? A relationship?”

 What defined a couple?

Was that what they were? How pedestrian.

So you kissed someone and immediately you were considered together.

Fascinating.

 

Victor's laugh was throaty. Rich.

“Not by my usual standards.... no. That's the thing. You know my past 'Lock, and usually I just sleep with the bloke or gal and then take off when I feel like breaking my own heart for the adrenaline rush. You know me, Love's a game. _The_ Game.” The way he said it was bitter. Like biting into a coffee bean. He continued uncertainly, and his words jumbled together in the chaotic way that was Victor Trevor. Biting, heated, and dangerous. “I told you that.... and yet to be honest I don't.....It's _different_ somehow. With you.... I don't want-” He didn't want just a dying relationship. For the first time, Victor looked at himself and thought how much he would like to be something more than just a fling. The thought felt alien in his head, and only grew to be more so the longer he dwelt upon it. He cut off then, and for just a moment it was like Victor's mind had shut down on him. He saw a white flash in front of his face, and there was a strange buzzing in his ears. A strange nothingness filled the older teen as the entire room around him washed out into dull oblivion.

Outside Mary stiffened, her features scrunched in pain. She felt the Spell she'd cast snap, like the threads to a marionette coming undone. Then she hastily threw her mental abilities at it, tossing a lifeline to the drowning soul of her Chosen with a surge of desperation.

 John watched and heard the entire exchange with an increasingly deepening frown. The angel beside him seemed to curl in on herself, lips tightening in concentration. He could hear Sherlock shifting in the blankets, noticing the blank stare on Victor's face and the dulled irises that reflected glassily ahead. Beside him, Mary uttered a low sigh. It sounded defeated. Turning to John, her brows lowered seriously, and she nodded towards the room. 

 “That's how he would be _always_ if I didn't keep the Spell going. Can't you see John, he'd be a _shell_ if he couldn't feel. Love is the base Human emotion, it drives _all_ things. Even your Sherlock is driven by love in _everything_ he does. Without it, Victor....”

 She trailed off, and the agony was evident in her voice. It was like once it had planted itself, it wouldn't leave her throat, hushed and living. It threatened to make John actually feel pity towards her. His jaw clenched. 

 

Inside, Victor slowly jerked as if awakening from a dream.

“Sorry.”

He mumbled blearily, pulling a little away to press the palms of his hands against his eyes and rubbing them. “Must be more tired than I thought....”

 

Sherlock was surprised at how the loss of contact made him feel. It was a strange sensation, a bubbling in his stomach that turned into a hollowness not unlike the feeling of freezing to death (a bad experiment, driving the boys at school at one point to such fury that they locked him in the cafeteria deep freeze. The lunch lady had found him after school, looking like a snow-dusted cherub with a murderous scowl). The sensation was strong enough for him to sit up a little, reaching out and roughly pulling Victor into a rare embrace that knocked the breath out of his lungs and was intensely possessive by nature. Those pale fingers locked themselves together just against his clavicle, and his deep voice rumbled in the beginnings of a sulk just next to his ear. Victor found it strange, how that voice could both at once be arousing and yet shy. How he could resist the pull that tells him to just fuck Sherlock and take off, because he knew that the boy beside him wasn't ready, even if he liked to pretend he was. Even if more than once he'd purposefully initiated some of the more inappropriate wrestling they've taken part in. He resisted because those eyes sand at him with just affection, not lust. Sherlock didn't really do lust, not in the same way that so much of the world did. At least, not with Victor. Never with Victor.  They told him that despite his bluster and bravado, Sherlock Holmes was afraid of the intimacy of sex. What's more, he was afraid that after sex, Victor would leave him. The fact that it may very well be true sent a ripple of confliction into the teen's abdomen. He wanted... he wanted to stay. Yet to stay went against his own nature, patterns and existence. Sherlock's voice was abrasive, hurt despite it's callousness. It tried to cover up his uncertainty. 

 “Why must a relationship be defined by whether or not we're shagging?”

 Sighing, Victor shrugged one shoulder.

“Because I'm horny by nature and people are stupid?”

 A snort. The puff of air tickled the back of his neck. Then silence.

Sherlock's voice was quieter now.

“We could.... you know.... I mean.....”

He trailed off, fingers tightening minutely, bruising the knuckles of his opposite hand. Victor gently clasped them in his own, trying to break them apart before they could cause bodily harm. His voice was calm.

“No.”

 “Why?”

 “Because you have a headache.”

 “You're lying.”

 “Yeah. I am.”

 “Tell me the truth.”

Sherlock demanded, and Victor sighed sharply through his nose.

 “Because you flinch sometimes when I so much as _kiss_ you. If I go any further, I want it to be enjoyable on _both_ sides. Is that really so strange, or am I too much of a _villain_ to care about your needs?”

He could feel Sherlock's confused scowl on the back of his neck. The blankets fell back from his shoulders as a pale hand pulled his chin to the side, so that their eyes were interlocked. Sherlock's voice was tight, wounded pride seeped from him like a tangible aura. 

 “Sex doesn't scare me.” He murmured, and Victor heard the unspoken words under Sherlock's bluster and it nearly made him crumble.  _For you I'd get over it. For you I wouldn't mind being afraid. I want you to stay._

 Victor; because the pooling of heat that shot straight to his groin has become impossible to ignore, twisted himself so that he was suddenly clasping Sherlock's wrists in his hands, pinning him to the bed so the mattress squeaked and groaned under them and his hips were pressed flush against Sherlock's own.  Outside John stiffened at the abrupt contact, mouth parting slightly as the wave of conflicting emotions ripped through him like a tidal wave and left him thoroughly dizzy. Beside him Mary sighed, cursing and muttering something about an 'excess of endorphins' being released because of the forced reattachment of the Spell. It sounded like she was merely a long-suffering member of private staff. 

 

Inside Sherlock's heart was pounding in his chest, his face a pale moon as he stared fixedly into those sea-blue eyes above him. His arms pinned above his head, he was unblinkingly silent as Victor panted above him, trembling with unresolved need and frustration pinning him in place. He couldn't move forward, because those ever-shifting irises were looking at him with such clarity and such open _innocence_ and well-masked fear. He only saw the nervousness by the way Sherlock's fingers curled and uncurled in their trapped hold, and by the sped up breaths escaping his lips.Yet Victor couldn't move backwards either. His entire body told him that if he began it, the teen below him would follow. He would catalogue, taste every sinful pleasure Victor could offer him, let himself be tainted and painted with colours of lust and desire. If he initiated Sherlock would push aside his own fear, his own reservations over physical contact and touch for Victor's sake. He would let himself be used and tasted and under his teaching would become just as dark as he was. The crave was there, like an addict looking for a hit Victor saw it. He also sees that if he took it, it he allowed himself this pleasure, then he was no better than the others that had tread on Sherlock in his life, used him for their own advantage and bullied him when he was a nuisance. 

 

He couldn't do it. He was so _tired._ So emotionally spent. He'd never put so much effort before into a relationship in his life, not just a sexual one, but on a purely _interactive_ level. Not that sex was the sole drive of his relationships before, but there was _always_ an element of it. Victor knew Sherlock better than he knew his own _Mum._ Worse, he knew how Sherlock would let him take advantage, despite his claims to the contrary. Sherlock's eyes were huge in the dark, twin lanterns of desperation, and they made guilt twist like vipers in Victor's stomach. 

  _I love you. Don't leave me like everyone else has. I love you so much._

 

His hands tightened about Sherlock's wrists. Hard enough to bruise. Then just as swiftly they drew away, bracing his shoulders on either side of the teen's head. Slowly, Victor lowered himself until their jaws aligned in the darkness. Lips pressing against lips. Tongues darting against tongues. The burning, aching need telling him to never stop and the screaming echo in his mind warning him of the aftermath that would come if he chased down his high. Sherlock all but melted against him, so desperate for touch, the reassurance that Victor would not leave. In the end he pulled away, shuddering and pressing his head against Sherlock's neck and trembling in silence. The teen underneath him after a moment hesitantly brought his hands back up from where they had curled against his chest, stroking Victor's hair thoughtfully the way he had done only a moment before. Outside, Mary flexed her wings and regarded John carefully, noting the way he had fallen into stone-like frigidity over the exchange. Her voice was soft in the dark, and her eyes seemed to reflect the multitudes of stars over their heads.

“If we just left now, your Chosen would look for us.”

 John's voice was hoarse. Disbelieving of his own words.

“What makes you think he'd be so foolish?”

Her smile was sad, and her laugh as bitter as a bitten lemon.

“Because dear John, _love_ , even false love,makes _everyone_ foolish in the end.”

 

That night the two boys lay curled about each other. Neither really sleeping, both pretending to.

They were both wrapped up in their own thoughts, lost in speculation. Sherlock's thoughts were about the curious aching in his chest that made him feel like he was always running a marathon lately, and how the complicated and thundering thud in his chest could not possibly be something as mundane as _love._

Victor's thoughts reflected how in the moonlight his skin was almost ghostly, like he wasn't real at all. A mirrored image, something that should be Human but simply wasn't. Fae-like and lonely, he wondered how long it would take to peel at his skin, to pick layer after layer apart like wallpaper until he found a semblance of something _living_ under it's sheet-like smoothness. A part of him wanted to ask Sherlock irrationally if he'd ever wanted to pick someone apart just to see how they work. He didn't have to ask. He already knew the answer to that question.

They both floated in their own silent ships across dark water, pretending to dream until reality actually faded into the illusion of their own minds. Fog wrapped them up and carried them down to sleep, neither one of them consciously realizing it as they leaned against each other, the blanket swaddling them both like a cocoon and keeping them from all harm in the darkness.

 

Around three in the morning, the click of the door opening downstairs didn't rouse either of them. Mycroft Holmes, coming home for a visit on the weekend because of the concerning things his Mother had said to him over the phone about Sherlock, noticed immediately the pair of shoes on the mat that did not belong to anyone in his family. His eyes narrowed at the red and black trainers, his silhouette a dark shape as he turned on the hall light quietly. Behind him, Anthea saw the outline of two angels sitting on the roof. One she recognized, the other was a stranger's shadow. She felt Mycroft's protective instincts towards his brother and prickled, preparing for a battle. He set his ever-cherished umbrella down against the closet door and straightened, shoulders rolling back so that he reached his full height. 

The two silently crept upstairs, footsteps light and soundless on the steps. In the past couple of months, it was new skill Anthea had developed. The Spell of being Soundless. She was quite good at it, as she was good with most Magic that involved the art of going unseen. With the added fuel of Mycroft's determination of finding out just what exactly his little brother had been up to, they were little more than shadows on the walls. Sherlock's bedroom door had been left open, the two boys hadn't expected any visitors. There was no need for privacy in an empty home with empty walls and empty halls. The elder Holmes peered inside, and what he saw first was the blonde mop of curls peeking out from the blanket, tanned arms curled protectively around a thinner but longer body. The next thing he saw was the purpling echoes of fingerprints on the milky-white wrist that dangled half-off the bed, and the situation before him seemed startlingly clear and unacceptable all at once.  His hands tightened into fists. He suddenly wished he had his umbrella to wrap his fingers about the handle, because the biting crescents that his manicured fingernails made against his palm were painful and vivid. For a moment he just stood there, imagining exactly how those blonde curls would look like against the cold metal of a prison cell. After all technically, it could be arranged. Mycroft knew of Victor Trevor, and he knew his less savoury habits. Particularly, his one of sleeping around like a cat in heat.

 

Stepping inside, he lifted up one tailored shoe and kicked the door closed, the slam of the hinges clapping against the frame, echoing like a gunshot and jerking both boys awake. Characteristically, Sherlock rubbed at his eyes in an almost childlike fashion until he recognized the figure before him and paled, jaw clenching and his expression rapidly smoothing over into a sneer. Beside him, Victor began to groan and cuss at being woken up, stopping only when he saw how still and pale the younger teen beside him had become. When he looked over to where Sherlock's unblinking gaze was pointed, he felt the pointed tongue lashing he was preparing to dish out die in his throat.

Mycroft stood there, arms crossed over his chest and impassive features locked in a staring match with his younger brother, looking for all the world like the God of Death come to rain down Hell-fire upon the Holmes' manor. Those ice-blue eyes cut into Victor's skull, impaling him for a moment and rendering him (somewhat impressively) speechless. Sherlock; to his credit, held that glare without even flinching. His voice didn't rise, but it crackled with burning embers, looking to start a fight. Rebellious and young. 

 “Get out.”

 “Sherlock-”

 “ _I said get out you ignorant, fat, clod!”_

 He hissed, and the cold tension broke like the crest of a wave smashing against slate-grey stone. Mycroft's eyes flashed like freezing lasers, threatening to send small countries into a new ice-age. His lip curled up into a sneer to hide the fact that he was surprised at the vehemence in Sherlock's voice. His younger brother was usually caustic in temperament, but he did not usually wield his tongue against _him._ He was discomfited to discover that something has changed in the teen's stance towards him since he has left. Outside however he was a wall of immovable concrete.

 “You are not exactly in a position right now to be making _demands,_ dear brother. Given the compromising situation you're in.”

 “ _You_ have no right to come in here and rule over me. _You left._ ”

 

And there it was, the bare-faced fury cracking over Sherlock's features. Mycroft felt its accusation like whiplash. His eyes narrowed as he saw the tension lining every single tendon in his brother's neck, like he was tempted to jump out the window that lay open to the night air. Outside, John noticed the commotion and automatically pulled Mary behind the tree in the yard, unwilling to face Anthea's disappointment or anger at the moment. They listened tensely as one as they crouched up in the branches, his hand clapped over her mouth and his eyes flicking silent warnings for her not to struggle. Mercifully Mary relaxed, coiling tighter against him like she was afraid of being dragged physically down from her perch. John bitterly thought he should just leave her to the proverbial wolves, but his guilt tugged too strongly for him to do so. Besides, if he left her to Anthea, she would probably just sell out his hiding spot.

It was at this point that Victor seemed to find his voice again after it left him in mute shock, this hands lifting in a placating gesture in the vain hope that he might be able to diffuse the building storm being put under pressure by the two immovable fingers before him. Sherlock stood in front of him protectively, arms braced as if expecting a physical fight. Mycroft's stance was offensive, as if he'd very much like to take his little brother by his graceful neck and throttle him. They might as well have been snarling wolves, black fur against ginger, for the amount of animosity exchanged between them. Victor could almost imagine the snarling that's passing unspoken over his head. He tried to make an escape anyway.

“Look, I better go-”

 “ _No. Stay.”_

 

Both of them said at exactly the same time, both for very different reasons. Sherlock's jaw clenched as he realised what just happened, and Mycroft's eyebrows if possible rose higher on his forehead. Victor shrank a little back against the wall, slumping in defeat as he realised there's no way he was going to be allowed anywhere near Sherlock for a very, _very_ long time. The argument lasted until morning. Sherlock screeched like a disgruntled cat, Myroft's voice rose to a growl. It was perhaps the most confusing, frightening and disturbing row Victor had ever laid eyes upon. He was ignored like a piece of furniture, left to merely blink in shock as Sherlock's older brother called him all manner of things.

_Scum of the Earth. Trash. Low-life._

Names that managed to sound elegant in Mycroft's mouth even while being hurled cuttingly in his direction. Victor might have been offended if he wasn't so damn impressed with how he managed to sound so bloody _infamous_ when the Holmes' boys described him.

 

Sherlock retaliated heatedly on his behalf, using nothing more than what he saw. It was like a lit match to gasoline, the way he ricocheted deductions off of his brother like throwing knives.

“At least he doesn't pretend to be so bloody ruthless all the time! You act like you're so fucking remote Mycroft, you use your skills to push people away and yet simultaneously make them dance on strings for your benefit! When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep? Don't answer I know. A month Because Mummy's been calling you every single night and whispering about me and your guilty conscience is trying to relieve you of the pressure by assuring yourself that you're not at fault for how I am! Well guess what?! You won't find relief on my end!”

 “How are you then Sherlock? Because you seem to be so _wonderfully_ in control of yourself, all tangled up in some urchin who probably has God-knows-how-many number of sexually transmittable diseases and clinging to him like he's the answer to every problem in your life-”

 “ _And what if he is?!”_

 

Sherlock's voice rose then, approaching a roar. He stood then, actually stalking forward so he could hiss lowly in his older brother's face. Gangly limbs sorted and now leonine, he would have looked cold, Frigid to most. Except that John knew the tears that he was fighting back, holding captive in his blue-grey irises and refusing to release. His fists trembled at his sides, and his voice was dangerously low as he swallowed once convulsively. Regaining some of his composure.

“What if he is? Would you turn on me too if I couldn't be like you? Cold and heartless?”

 Mycroft took a step back like he'd been struck. For one glaring instant, all of his defensive walls come down as he looked at Sherlock, eyes wide. Victor felt like in that instant he'd just walked in on something private, something raw. Something that should not have been seen. His insides curled as for a second he glimpsed the raw agony behind the impassable frozen fortress of immobility. John felt Sherlock's energy, radiating in a compacted ball with the pressure only building. It was set to explode and take down everything around it. His wings shook aching for him to fly, to attack and scream. His lips tightened until they were white.

 

Mycroft's voice was quiet. Shaken. In his head is only one thought.

_You can't honestly believe I'd do something like that..... could you?_

Instead what came out of his mouth was what he's telling himself, over and over as he looked into those eyes and wondered why it hurt so much to see the question in them. The unknowing. The fact that Sherlock did not realize after all this time that he was the one flame Mycroft couldn't help but look after, to _love_ in his own way was a stunning blow. That was why he had to destroy this foolish notion of sentiment, because he knew it would only end in suffering. He could tell by the way the blonde teen behind them vibrated with the need to dance in flame, how his eyes shimmered with the licking light of fire. Unhappy endings were imprinted on him more tightly than the black skinny jeans he wore.

“Caring is not an advantage.”

 

His voice sounded so cold, and he hated it. Hated that he was the cause of the flicker in those irises, hated that he had to play the villain in this. He resented the fact that Sherlock had been so stupid as to land himself in this kind of situation. He was furious that he could not wholly keep his anger in check and that Sherlock saw and purposefully misread it for anger at _him._ His little brother's voice echoed with finality, hollow and wooden.

“Then I guess if it's such a _disadvantage_ I should just disappear, because _everyone_ in this house irrationally feels obligated towards me. I should just become a _machine._ ”

 

Then he turned to Victor, and the older teen saw the set shape of those pale shoulders. All of the trembling had stopped. Those eyes that met his were silver and unwavering, and they held absolutely no emotion in their depths. He held out a hand.

“Come Victor. Let's go.”

Victor for his part, had to shake himself into motion. The blonde teen wanted to tell Sherlock that he was wrong, that Mycroft behind him was looking like he'd been shattered. He wanted to explain that this wasn't the right way to do things. That if he left now he would  _never_ come back the same. This was not something that is as cut and dry as  _Let's go._ He wanted to, but he couldn't. His tongue worked at the right words silently, but even as he struggled to say something he wasalready standing up, getting ready to leave. Willingly he let Sherlock walk out of the house, Mycroft still in a state of shock and still as they passed. He didn't stop them.

_Why doesn't he stop us?_

 Victor wondered, and the answer came to him slowly.  _He has no idea how._ Like watching things inside a frozen piece of time, it seemed to happen in the slowest of motions and yet at the same time pass in the blink of an eye, snippets unfolding. Sherlock's hand grabbed his wrist, the contact of skin warm. They passed the dark elder Holmes, flinching as if expecting retaliation. There was none, only the strange feeling of those blue eyes staring fixedly ahead, lost in their own thoughts. They stumbled down the stairs, hard to manoeuvre because Sherlock refused to let go of his sleeve as if he was afraid he might bolt. Or maybe he was just tethering himself back unto Earth, as his eyes were lost with his own chaotic thoughts. Pinpricks of reflective light glittered in their depths like starlight.

The two of them travelled out into the driveway, where Victor's car awaited for them in the chilly evening air. Without a word Sherlock got in, silently pushing his lover towards the driver's seat. The slam of the doors closing and encasing them in darkness sent a familiar thrum through Victor's abdomen, the kind he got just before a big race. His fingers twitched instinctively over the clutch, tapping out the familiar rhythm against the grey leather. Other hand reached up to clasp the wheel, and he could sense rather than see Sherlock's eyes pinning the back of his neck, encouraging the flame. It sang to the fire inside him like sweetest honey and candied caramel.

 “Drive.”

There was no indication of the direction he wanted to go, merely an order not to stop. Victor didn't need to be told twice. He revved the engine into gear, spitting gravel from the tires and tasting the metallic flavour of adventure on his tongue. 

 

It was as he heard the screaming of the car engine streaking off into the night that Mycroft finally was able to move again. By then however, it was far too late. Sherlock was gone, and he couldn't honestly say that he'd ever be back...The darkly-curled teen himself likely didn't even know the answer to that question any more.

 

*****

A few months passed.

John urged Sherlock again and again to go home. He didn't, instead electing to crash on Victor's couch. His mother didn't mind, used to and resigned to Victor's boyfriends and his antics by now, and his father was hardly ever home. When even the mother was gone Sherlock would take his pillow and go upstairs, curling protectively about the blonde teen. The older of the two often woke to feel that sweet, low breath on his face and he'd groan silently in both frustration and want and resistance. Twice John had fierce words with God over the way his Chosen's future was panning out, and twice he had been given the roundabout. All his Father would say was that  _'There is a reason for this John, it shouldn't be changed.'_

The angel tried not to take that to mean that the worst was yet to come. As it was, he spent most nights curled inside the pocket of the night-shirt that Victor had loaned Sherlock, glowing not unlike a torch in order to keep an eye out for any strange assailants that might show up. And strange people _did_ like to turn up at Victor's place at the oddest of times. Like bandits in the dark they appeared on light feet and with often ragged clothes or hair, mostly teenagers that lingered with the alkaline smell of smoke and alcohol and sweat. Since Sherlock rarely slept anyway, he often was the one to see them creep through the front door, alerting Victor to their presence often before they even realized he was there. Often they would also be looking for a light, so Sherlock took to keeping a pack on him at all times. He also began smoking more frequently as a result. At least, he told himself that was the reason he smoked more. John wanted to tear his hair out in frustration.

 It soon became apparent that Victor's house was a sort of hub for most of the city's youth, both homeless and employed. A meeting ground that he admitted to starting a few years ago, mostly because he found it could be useful to know where you were getting your drugs from and who was racing who and what dealers were shifty and bad news. It was sort of a network, he explained humbly one night when a girl with a shiny pink scar across one cheek and a tongue piercing had come in and told him something about a man named “Shifty” who was looking for his “fix.” A loosely organized way of keeping himself safe. Sherlock told him that night that the idea was almost ingenious. It was the most flattering thing Victor had ever heard come from the boy's mouth.

Sherlock swiftly began to create his own group, editing it to fit his needs. Solely the homeless for one, as he would need those that could pass unseen. Also only those looking for a free meal or some money, because those looking for sex would be sorely disappointed with him in that area. An information highway, a way to create a structured web of eyes all keeping an eye out for information. He had them begin looking for cases. Sherlock knew what he wanted, what could fix the shrieking in his brain, puzzles could help alleviate the dangerous boredom.

Of course, Victor came up with other ways to also help him that area...

Neither of the boys really bothered with school any more. There wasn't much point, Victor all but graduated and Sherlock far smarter than many of the teachers themselves. 

 

*****

“All right, it's your first time, so we're going to take things slow. Okay?”

Sherlock pretended like he didn't hear him, eyes roving over the flashing lights and pulsating music of the house party. Those silver irises glinted oddly as his pale skin was tinged red from the reflective beams shooting across the dance-floor. He sat curled up in a corner of the room, raven curls shimmering phantasmal and elusive as he watched the undulating bodies that flickered in the flashing scene before him. The air smelled of smoke, of body glitter and cheap beer and sweat. Acrid and sharp. It tasted of sex and strawberry lip-gloss and weed. It was the flavour of mischief, of debauchery and sin itself, and Victor fit right in as he crouched beside him, scowling in a leather jacket and tight jeans.

“Sherlock are you listening to me? Pay attention kid or you're going to have a bad trip.”

 He was paying attention of course, he paid attention to _everything,_ but not as much as Victor would like. It was hard to, with all the noise rushing in his head. Pulsating with the blood chugging thickly in his ears. The music was the kind that was designed to energize as oppose to soothe, and his fingers tapped restlessly against the tight jeans his lover coerced him into wearing to this blasted party. Noticing their restless beat, Victor couldn't help but smirk ever so slightly. Sherlock was tapping out the same rhythm that he usually used. The _tap-tap....tap-tap_ appeared to manifested itself as a habit without the younger teen even realizing. He wrapped his fingers around those restless digits, attempting to pull Sherlock back to the Earth. He managed, somehow, always managed.

“You once told me you needed the world to catch up with your mind... You said that's why you... hurt sometimes, right?”

 

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. His eyes were wild and wide and Victor regretted bringing him to the party. It had been a bad choice, but his old roomate had insisted he come along and he hadn't wanted to leave the younger teen alone in his house to wreak havoc on his Mum's plants with his experiments again. Plus, a very greedy part of himself admitted to the fact that he had _jumped_ at the chance to dress Sherlock up in something other than his school uniform or those overly posh suits he so favoured, and that he had decided to go all out since he may never get the chance again. Those blue eyes now looked like laser pointers against the contrast of his snow-white skin, alabaster and glowing luminously against the dark Beatles t-shirt he had scrounged about and managed to find. His curls had been brushed in such a way as to look effortlessly tousled, something that took far more work than Victor would ever think possible. White jeans clad his skinny hips snugly and lowly, and when Sherlock had finally been dragged to the bathroom mirror he had looked at his own reflection and bluntly muttered in half-amusement and half horror.

_“I look like I belong to a band.”_

 

Of course at the time Sherlock had already deduced where they were going. He was a genius after all, and Victor wasn't really trying to hide it. However the younger teen hadn't realized just how _loud_ teenagers could be when left to their own rule and gathered in a tight space of only a few thousand square feet. In the end, Victor only separated from him for what seemed like a moment. When he had come back Sherlock was curled against a wall and breathing sharply through his nose, looking pissed off and only vaguely apologetic through his pain. So Victor thought of a way to fix it, because he had tried so many other ways before, and the closest thing that had come to stopping Sherlock's torment was nicotine. So maybe something just a little stronger would do.

 “Are you sure you want this 'Lock?”

He asked slowly, his Dealer (nicknamed 'Heatstroke', but everyone knew his real name was Kevin) by his side. The only response he got was a pained whimper, and he gathered his lover sympathetically into his lap and stroked his hair. The fact that Sherlock didn't protest to the public display of affection spoke volumes about his discomfort.

 

John was severely disoriented. He hated the pulsing lights. He hated the thousands of fluttering wings, intermingling with Human bodies and appearing translucently and fading away among the pounding music. It rifled his brain, turning it to scrambled eggs, and he felt himself curl instinctively into a ball in the corner of the room. He had lost Sherlock. His heart pounded with the thought, pulsating painfully in his ears. Normally he could sense him, but the noise was too much. Mary had been holding his hand, gently muttering to him soothing words, but she had been tugged by Victor's movements and soon forced to desert him to the crowds. Then his Chosen had moved, and John hadn't been able to follow fast enough, and the house all around him seemed determined to make it so he couldn't think straight. He clapped his hands to either side of his head, and his wings rippled nauseous green. Even the sound of his own pained groans threatened to flood him, pull him under so he would risk drowning. It was for this reason he didn't realize what was happening.It would be his night that John would often curse in the silence when he reflected on all the things that he _could've_ done, because _this_ should have been preventable.  _This_ should have been stopped.

 

“Okay, so here's how it goes. I'll pay for your first one, but if you want more you pay on your own, got it?” Heatstroke's (or Kevin's) voice was smooth and oily in nature, and his grin was not unlike the Chesire Cat's in Alice In Wonderland as he took out a bottle of the 7% variety and held it up to the light. The heroin winked coldly, clear and colourless as it sent smatterings of light across Sherlock's cheeks and made him wince. He allowed Victor to pull on his arm, wrapping a tourniquet expertly about his upper arm from the little case that the Dealer kept on him during all probable business interactions. The hand that made a fist for them trembled lightly in pain, his brain feeling like it might explode. It was worse than any other time before, Sherlock felt like he was being _swallowed_ by the tidal wave of agony. He would be screaming if it weren't for the feather-light touches of Victor's hands on his temples, rubbing relief gently even while helping set up a needle. Sherlock watched them do their work in silence, save for his pantings of pain. It was better than closing his eyes and experiencing the fireworks of his mind once again shutting down. Burning itself to a crisp. Fill the needle. Tap it to dispel air bubbles. Standard medical-like procedures. The clear liquid glinted at him as Victor held up the vial, the plunger resting against his thumb. His blond brows were lowered with care.

“Are you _sure_ 'Lock?”

 

He asked again, one more time. Though Victor's Spell of emotions was not enough to force him to stop Sherlock out of Love for him, it was enough for him to have a brief moment of what can only be described as nerves. Sure, he'ddone _coke_ before. It was an entirely different thing altogether though to make an _addict_ out of someone else. Particularly because a part of him could _feel_ the want in Sherlock. The need for his pain to end. The prayer inside him that begged for release from his constant thoughts. His constant pain. Those pale hands gripped his, tighten infinitesimally. Sherlock's grimace was strong enough that Victor worried for his molars, gritted against each other hard enough to crack enamol.

“Do it.”

 His voice was sure. Unwavering. In typical Sherlockian fashion, it did not even hint at the idea of backing down. He pressed the needle tip to the crook of his elbow, and pushed down on the plunger. And then, everything became blissfully, irrevocably _fast._ Inside John's head everything starbursted into oblivion and he felt his wings go _white_ in the shock of it, and then stain black as the darkest whisper of night. It was strange, because Sherlock thought he could recall that Chesire-like grin twisting in his head. The face of Kevin stretched and twisted so that his eyes melt away and turn into baleful red pits. He thought he heard cruel laughter, and perhaps the snarling of a wolf. That couldn't be true, and he forgot it almost as soon as it appears before him. Then Sherlock Holmes was swallowed by the action of not thinking terribly much at all.

 

*****

Mycroft tried to contact Sherlock. Sherlock steadfastly ignored his calls. He even chucked his phone in Victor's fish tank, after it rang ten times stubbornly in a row. He paced.He chain smoked. He did cocaine or heroin when the pain got to be too much and he had to _stop._ Victor kissed him. His mouth was like honey and fire. He touched him. His fingers were like shadowy tendrils whispering for him to come closer. Sherlock burned. Yet he didn't realize he was turning to ash. No, instead he was just too aware of the feel and taste and sensation of being a constantly lit flame.

 

Instead John took that awareness, and he sobbed in physical agony as it felt like his wings were constantly in a state of flux. Bending, quivering under the weight of fire. Mary held him in the throes of withdrawal, and her eyes darkened. Victor should have moved on by now. Should have already done his damage so that they could leave and Sherlock would have a chance to recover. To move on before something broke permanently. But he couldn't. Still the Spell was beginning to unwind. And it was slowly killing him, too.

*****

The drugs changed him, made him somehow sharper. More driven. Focused to a knife-point and just as deadly. They also made him if possible, even more volatile than he was before. His moods were no longer dark. They were catastrophic. Storms of epic proportions, only letting up when a new puzzle or Victor appeared. Sometimes the older teen just held him as he rode through it, and his arms were like vice grips that keep Sherlock from breaking the mirrors that laughed at him, and smashing the walls that warped purposefully to trip him up. Like a fun-house gone wrong.

It's times like this when he remembered his promise to himself, all those years ago. That foolish, childish promise that he would act badly so in comparison Mycroft would shine brightly. Even when Sherlock was angry at his brother, it seemed he would be keeping that vow. Then he would laugh, and Victor would tell him to 'shush' and stroke his head, and he tried to tell himself the reason he didn't feel worry over Sherlock's growing issues was because he was confident he could handle it. It was better than to admit that the addiction was wearing off, but he still couldn't pull away.

 Mary would try. She would try to release the Spell. Unwind it from her mind so that they could detach and move on. It didn't work. And soon she saw why and she paled, staring at the colour of her wings. The rainbow was turning to emerald green. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Sherlock was refusing to let the Spell release him.

 

*****

There were times when John thought he might be dying.

That's what it felt like, whenever Sherlock was strung out or coming down from a high. It tore through him again and again like torture, and made his wings become coated in tar-like blackness. It ate at him. Fed on his life-force even while he protected Sherlock from it, keeping the physical consequences that would leave permanent marks on a Human away from his Chosen. As a result John's own body took the punishment, and he found the wounds became harder and harder to Heal.

Mary began to notice as well. The first thing she pointed out was the scar that was stretching out across his shoulder. She saw it one night, her sapphire eyes wide as she watched it slowly spread cancerously, the angel before her writhing in discomfort and biting down savagely on his lower lip to keep from crying out. Her hands reached out as if to touch, but John shrank away with an animalistic snarl. Inside, Sherlock was shooting up. So was Victor for that matter, but Victor couldn't get addicted to anything but adrenaline thanks to his inhuman side. The chance of dying was what compelled him. Not the crave. One of the few benefits to being of Nephilim blood. Her whisper was agonized. Repeated. John now knew the sound of her voice saying _sorry_ better than he knew the sound of Sherlock's laugh.

“I'm so sorry. John.... I'm _sorry._ ”

 He looked her dead in the eye and snorted, voice rough and low and exhausted. His words are an echo of the past.

“Funny. It's starts out feeling awful...love... but it's only when you can't imagine life without it that you become truly fucked.”

 She cried over him. John blacked out, Sherlock inside toppling to the ground a second later. When he reawakened the rest of his pain is gone, but the scar remained. His Father's voice echoes deeply in John's head.

_You can't give up yet. It's almost over._

_It's all almost over....._

 

****

Then there were the days they fought.

They happened more often, when the ends of the Spell began to tatter and tear like a ribbon coming to pieces. It usually started out small, something happening that wouldn't normally set them off. An accident that turned into chaos. The particular accident that got Sherlock finally kicked out of Victor's home, happened explosively. He forgot to remove the chemicals he had been experimenting on from the microwave. When he returned later that evening, it was to an mess of epic proportions that blackened the kitchen and made the already overworked smoke alarm fit to have a small hernia. In the centre of it all stood Victor, fuming and staring in horror at the remains of what had been his grilled cheese sandwich.

“ _Damn it Sherlock!”_

 He shouted at the impassive boy who kicked off his shoes at the front door. Padding barefoot across the hall, he silently marvelled with impressed awe at his own destructive skills. There were even scorch marks on the _ceiling._ Fascinating. His chin tilted upwards as he scanned the room, seemingly oblivious to Victor's shouting.

 “ _You leap out of here like a bloody demon at three in the morning, chasing after some **stupid** puzzle that you got from the newspaper-”_

 “It was the wife.” Sherlock muttered absently under his breath, as if Victor had asked him a question.

“You could tell by the wetness at the sleeve of her coat. And no one ever noticed the bracelet....”

 “ _FUCK THE BRACELET!”_

 Victor screamed, fed up. He pulled at his hair as if he might tear it out, gritting his teeth. He'd had enough. He needed to go, and he should have left before he said something he'll regret, but that was the problem. Lately he felt like he cannot leave Sherlock's side for more than a few hours. Like he was physically tied to him. He didn't realize it, but it was because nearly all of Mary's wings had turned emerald green. She was unable to leave John, their emotions linked. As a result there was a horrible tugging at his ribs all day, demanding he find the younger teen and bring him nearer. Except Victor right now _hated_ Sherlock-

And then his mind went blank for a moment.  _Hated._ No. Start. Recompute.

Hate was not _allowed._

 

Sherlock noticed the boy goes still, eyes unfocused and his gaze narrowed. He took a cautious step forward, unwilling to spook Victor into movement. He kept a fairly indifferent tone despite his private concern. 

“Vic....?”

The older teen suddenly shuddered violently, and his blue eyes flashed as he carried on like he was unaware of the little mind-freeze that had just happened.

“You take my car and hot-wire it so you don't have to bother to ask for my keys, you _insult_ my intelligence every chance you get-”

 “Why are you so angry?” Sherlock mumbled in puzzlement, shaking his head in confusion. “My habits never bothered you before-”

 “Are you even fucking _listening_ to me Sherlock?!”

 Victor finally snapped, stalking forward and forcing the younger teen to back up until he was pinned against the wall. His breath was harsh, too hot as it bore down on Sherlock's face. The teen winced at the sudden onslaught of touch as the older teen pressed against him angrily. Both of them were hyper-aware of the other's leg pressed against their hips.

“Lately you've barely spoken, and when you have it's to give offence or to bemoan the fact that you can't afford cigarettes. Every time I come home there's a mess all over the floor, and you have the gall to look at me and demand that _I_ adapt. What the actual _ever-living fuck is wrong with you?_ ”

 He growled, and Sherlock's chin snapped up in hot retort as he pushed him away with his arms.

“ _What's wrong with **you?** I don't understand why you're so emotional-”_

 Then Victor threw up his hands, and shouted something that instantly made both of them freeze. He said it because he _wanted_ the bond to tear. He _wanted_ this to be over and done with. He _wanted_ to stop being the cause of that wounded look on Sherlock's face.

Later in life, the young Detective would reflect on that night in the silence of his room, playing his violin and picturing the exact, hateful tone in which the insult was spat. It would haunt him and put him to sleep, especially as Christmas drew near.

  **“ _You Machine. Can't you think about any one else but yourself?”_**

 

*****

Of course, Victor tried in vain to apologize. Sherlock didn't listen. He merely looked at him, eyes filled to his horror with restrained _tears_ , and left the house without another word, tearing into the street blindly. Victor was left standing, feeling his own heart race and a tearing in his chest that didn't feel physically possible. His hand was left outstretched but empty.  A few hours later, his mother came home, and Victor still hadn't moved. She saw the mess and shouted. He barely heard her, as if she were underwater, or maybe _he_ was. That would explain why everything was white. Numb. Painless, nothing felt real to him. He hadn't meant what he had said, except he  _had_ and the conflicting feelings doused him in gasoline, his own guilt setting him cheerlessly aflame. 

Outside, it began to snow. The first promise of Christmas. The first kiss of the end.

 

*****

That night, Sherlock stayed in a Youth Shelter. One that wouldn't question his obvious track marks on his arm or call him out on the fact that his eyes were red with unshed tears. As he stared in the mirror at his haggard face, he noticed the puffiness. He felt angry at himself for those tears, angry that he had even had the weakness inside himself to allow them to exist. When he punched the glass, it shattered into a million pieces. He got told off by a stern employee and his hand was bandaged, but he barely felt the pain. His head was already on fire, screaming at him to find his relief. His fix. It was even fiercer in his pull because Sherlock wanted to forget. He wanted to delete Victor's image from his head. He wanted to erase those words. He wanted to delete his _heart._  Except his brain wouldn't let him.

It decided instead to replay the entire scene over an over, analyzing it then sucking it into the void to be torn apart. Again and again. He clutched his head while lying on the bedroll he'sd been given and tried not to scream. He almost succeeded. John caught him when the Shelter asked him none to kindly to leave after that, kicking him out into the snow. Sherlock was too lost to notice that he didn't trip and land flat on his face. He was too numb to care about the strange absence of cold about him even though the snow fell heavily in flakes in his raven hair. If he did notice, he might have seen John's wings, scarred and broken and blacker than ash but still unshakable, wrapped about his slender body protectively. He would always be there until the end.  They were twin shadows, travelling on a lonely path into the night to an unknown destination.


	11. The Victor Of Love Part~ 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before you ask, yes, this is the end of the Victor arc. :) the cliffie is intentional, and will be brought back for later examination in the story. sorry boys and girls, but I'm evil and there's more plot to be told *winks* 
> 
> Song is given and denied by poets of the fall, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> just a heads up as there may be some triggering things in this chapter.... such as death *mumbles last bit and ducks head in shame* and angst.... and drug use and general feels. I'm sorry/not sorry.......  
> I promise next chapter will be much lighter.... forgive me...
> 
> This chapter is now Edited.

 

 

 

 

   _Give me back my innocence 'cos I wish to dream again_

  
_Like I never outgrew my old playground_  
_Where the sun sets slowly with a golden crown and the leaves sing lullabies 'round vacant swings_......  
_Give me those wings_....

_Let me fly once again_  
_Like I did way back when_  
_I would gamble and win_  
_To lift me high above the din_  
_Of the future we see_  
_Does it hold something for me_  
_I'm weightless again_  
_Just before the shadows..._

_Fall like a leaf in the wind..._

_Before I'll go hear me out_  
_Cos of this there ain't no doubt_  
_When it's time for curtain call_  
_Just before the shadows..._

_Fall like a leaf in the wind..._

 

 

“Have you ever considered what happens to an angel, when they go against their base nature to protect their Chosen?”

Mary had once asked John this question, after he had come back from another visit with Father and was thoroughly frustrated and furious. She remembered that conversation even as she watched Victor mechanically get dressed to go outside, once again trying to find Sherlock. It had been three days, and he still hadn't returned. John hadn't even dropped by to tell her if they were all right, and the radio silence was both uncomfortable and worrying. In truth he felt like she didn't deserve to know one way or another. The snow outside fell in sheets, approaching storm level. She watched its falling and thought about Sherlock from her perch for the past week, the top of Victor's bookshelf (Because he had refused to get out of bed, and kept a steady chain of cigarettes glowing in his hands and tapping his knee in thought). 

John's voice had been cautious as he had slumped down beside her, as if he didn't quite trust the words that passed her lips. Which, given the circumstances was logical enough.

“No.... I can't say that I have...” That had been the truth. John had never, not even at the darkest of times, considered hurting or abandoning Sherlock. The mere idea sent a visceral agony through his chest, leaving him breathless and feeling as if someone had moved the floor out from under him. It was unthinkable, unutterable. As if sensing his private distress, Mary smiled. It was not a kind expression.

“I have.” She whispered, her hands tightening about her knees and her wings quivering. Sitting on the roof (their habitual meeting place at night), the stars glowed over their heads in the frosting air. Back then the promise of Winter was only that, a promise, and the chill wind bit into their skin and would have left them shivering if they were Human. Her eyes had been as blue as the flavour of that cold. “From the studying I have done of the _**Olde Laws**_ , it's only happened in some fairly dire circumstances..... When the consequence to the Human being allowed to live would lead to the destruction of another. For it to be done, an Angel must turn against their primary instinctual need to protect...... they must kill their own Chosen before their time has come... Do you understand? They literally must become something _else._ Once they make that decision, they are literally _not an Angel any more._ ”

 

She whispered that in wide-eyed horror, staring at her fingers as if the idea itself was too much to think about. It was. John could not imagine being anything _but_ an Angel. He could not imagine laying his hands about Sherlock's to do anything other than caress him, or perhaps if he was truly desperate to pull him out of harm's way. In fact the only time Sherlock had even become _slightly_ wounded directly because of him was that one time when he was six. With the ambitious dream of becoming a pirate, he had made a wooden sword and taken to hitting anyone within reach with it. When his hands had thrown it in the air in glee, John had decided to teach him a gentle lesson about the dangers of whacking people over the head with blunted objects. He didn't bother to direct the wooden sword off of it's course and let gravity do it's work so that it plummeted back down to strike his Chosen across the forehead. The lesson had stuck, as had the purple goose-egg that had bloomed across the child's forehead.

“When you ask me to stop this. When you _demand_ it of me, you ask for my Chosen to _die._ ” Mary said the words with a shudder, her hands running up and down her bare arms. In the darkness her beauty now looked somehow fragile to John, less dangerous and more like glass. Like he could reach out and shatter her if he wanted to. Even though she probably didn't deserve it, he felt his throat work at an apology. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was pleading. 

 “I'm sorry.”

 “...It's okay...” She sighed, tilting her head back so the stars reflect in her irises like twin mirrors blinking into the sky. Her bare toes curled together in thought. John watched her, unsure of what he saw. He was not sure if he hated Mary sometimes, or if he just pitied her. She could see it in his eyes, the conflict. The _want_ to see the good in her. That was one thing she genuinely liked about John, that he tried so hard to see the good in people. Maybe it was because he was constantly seeing the bad because of Sherlock's mind. Maybe it was just the way he was. When she looked at him she saw the Angel that she thought  _should_ exist. One with compassion, one with mercy. One that was far too Human for his own good, prone to anger and temperamental. She wondered what would happen if she could feel like that, if she could bring herself to truly feel _sorry_ for her actions. She knew she never would, because in the end Victor's life was the most important thing in her life, and she would sooner kill for him than admit that what she was doing was wrong. She wondered if she might be able to kill him, if she had that kind of ability... to _feel_ like a Human... If it meant saving someone else. Sparing another life. Yet those were dangerous thoughts for an Angel, a Guardian. Protector's protected, defend. Emotions, though useful in small doses, could only hinder in large quantities.

 

Yes, when she reflected on that memory, that was what rang the most true. John was _emotional_ for an Angel... capable of such _love,_ and she manipulated emotions shamelessly and yet didn't understand. She didn't really know why Humans needed love, or why Victor would sometimes seem to almost feel it without her help, only to turn numb at the last instant. Mary knew the science of it, the _**Olde Texts**_ and the chemical qualities of it, but she couldn't find the reason behind why a babe would reach up to kiss their Mother's cheeks or why a man could hold a woman and realize that he couldn't live without her existence in the world. And that in some ways was why it hurt her to torture Sherlock so. She worried about him in the dark. Worried as she listened to Victor's thoughts, surprisingly emotional only to stutter and fade into white. Stop. Shut down. Start again. Feel guilt, twisted in his gut like snakes.

The Spell was on it's last legs, but it wasn't dying. She wasn't sure any more who was keeping it going, it had twisted and curled itself into something akin to a sentient being, draining her energy and feeding off of the sparking dynamic between the two boys. Sherlock tugged on it, covering her wings in vibrant splotches of green and creating discomfort. Victor burned it, using it every waking moment of the day. Mary knew, suddenly certain in her gut. It Pulled at her unwaveringly, like she's a ship rising to meet a storm.

Something had to give, be it her Chosen, or Sherlock Holmes.

 

*****

Victor was half-smashed by the time he heard the doorbell to his home ring. His Mother wasn't home, off at work. Of course she had threatened to send him off to boarding school when she saw his appearance (unshaved, scruffy. He smelled of booze and cigarettes and could probably use a nice bath. Eyes bloodshot, but he had never slept much to begin with) but she eventually gave up. Her job was more important, and it always has been. Trouble in paradise. His life sometimes seemed like a really bad chick flick. Minus the chicks. Would it be a dick flick then? Didn't sound as nice. He laughed coarsely, taking another sip of the cheap whiskey he had clutched in one hand and letting it clink against his belt before unceremoniously opening the door. He did not expect Mycroft Holmes to be on the other side of the it, using an umbrella to keep the snow off of his head and wearing a decidedly disdainful expression on his face. The look did not lesson as he saw Victor, shirtless and wearing low-slung jeans that could use a good wash, a couple of days' worth of beard beginning under his chin. He leaned against the door-frame lazily, cradling his drink and eyeing the man before him as if he'd like nothing more than to get mud all over that bloody pristine suit.

Torquing a blonde eyebrow upwards, Victor's voice was smoothly amused to hide how badly he wanted to throw up. Whether from the bad booze or the fact that his nerves had reached their edge, he didn't know. He only knew that his hands were trembling, and that he couldn't quite make them stop.

“Morning! Care for a drink?”

He held up the bottle and snickered, shrugging slightly. His bare shoulders had goosebumps from the chill winter wind that blew its way through his hall from the open door. Mycroft folded his umbrella and gripped the handle. His eyes were cold and remote and the colour of thin glass. Behind him, Anthea scowled up at the Angel that sat upon the roof like a grim reaper, bare as an infant and yet uncaring of the cold. Mary lifted her chin defiantly as the older Angel spread her wings and came to stand before her, the picture of fury coming to take its revenge. They stared at one another, cinnamon-brown eyes locked on blue as below their Chosen's had a similar stand-off. Mycroft's voice was crisp, detached, giving away no hint of anything. Like a mirror he reflected instead of giving away an image, a mirage.

“I'm here to talk to Sherlock.”

Victor took a swig of his whiskey, looking away so the man wouldn't see how he flinched at the name. His tongue flicked out to dart across his lips, tasting the bitterness in his own words as well as the texture of sleep.

“S'not here any more. Tough for you.”

He saw those hands tighten ever so slightly on their grip of the umbrella. Other than that though, Mycroft appeared unmoved.

“Really?”

And the way he said it, it's like he was half-suspecting Victor has his little brother tied up in a dungeon somewhere. The mental image of trying to contain Sherlock Holmes though was laughable, so Victor had to work hard to keep from smirking darkly. He rolled his eyes at the other man's question, leaning back, deliberately insolent.

“When will he be back?”

“Dunno. Didn't really say considering I kind of pissed him off.”

He winced then at his own words.  _Kind of._ Like that even bloody begun to cover it.

The elder Holmes sighed, like his answer was supremely disappointing to the point of physically paining him. Victor was distinctly reminded of the teachers that used to tell him off, the ones that used to tell him that he was 'bright' and yet lacked 'motivation'. They were the ones who had the gall to tell him that if he just tried harder, he could amount to something, even while simultaneously speaking of how he would probably get a nine to five job at a supermarket with the other teachers in the Staff Room. That was if they didn't think he would go to prison first. He was fairly certain there had been a betting pool. His eyes narrowed slightly as Mycroft spoke, blue shards of spite.

 “May I come in?”

 “I'd honestly prefer if you didn't.”

 “Our Mother is in the hospital.”

Mycroft dead-panned finally, ice-grey eyes crackling with impatience, and Victor nearly dropped his drink onto the front step. He caught the bottle just in time with the barest pads of his fingers, eyes widening slightly as he for a moment actually looked at the man before him. He saw now the dark circles under the eyes, the white-knuckled grip on his umbrella handle, as if he might sway to the ground from exhaustion by the slightest gust of wind. Victor drank in the lines of tension that he somehow knew weren't there before, even though he had only met the man on a shadowy night almost an entire year ago. The words he wanted to originally say died on his lips, and instead he became a master of eloquence.

“Fuck me.”

Then he took another swig of his whiskey, handing the bottle to the man forcefully before gesturing for him to come inside with muttered curses under his breath. Mycroft, eyeing the bottle distastefully before downing the rest of its amber, mind-numbing contents, wasted no time following his lead. He used the handle of his umbrella to swing the door shut behind him.

 

*****

To his Mum's credit, she had been militant about keeping the tea set out of reach of even the most _determined_  detective. As a result, it was one of the few sets of cutlery that wasn't pitted with acid-marks, or chipped from explosions. Victor; figuring that the elder Holmes probably wouldn't want to do something as crass as shots or as vulgar as binge drinking, brought the kettle to a boil and braced his hands against the counter-top tensely, fingers drumming against the smooth surface. It was tell-tale sign of his nerves breaking through. He could really use a smoke.  _Tap-tap, Tap-tap._

Mycroft had seated himself on the rickety sofa that had once housed his younger brother, observing the smoky atmosphere around him and taking in the sight of a neglected and rather dishevelled sort of living space. His coat lay in his lap, having no offer from Victor of where he should put it. Personally, he preferred to keep it on him anyway, as he had seen the shadowy outlined form of a homeless teenager like a ghost curling up and hiding from him with wide eyes in the darkness of bathroom down the hall. Though he didn't have much of value on him, he liked being warm from the Winter chill that permeated outside.

He was a pale figure in the house that was at once obviously wealthy and yet obviously messy, a clean spot in a bomb-zone. Mycroft recognized many files scattered all over the place with his little brother's handwriting on them, equations spanning page upon page tacked up onto the walls. There were newspaper clippings, pasted together in order of date of occurrence and the level of crime. Beside them lay beakers, some lying empty and shimmering, others bubbled and stewed with suspicious vigor, multicoloured and whispering promises of a destructive quality. The entire room, down to the cigarette burns on the floorboards, screamed Sherlock. Yet he was not here, as noted by the already thin layer of dust that is beginning to settle on the files, and the lonely way the Bunsen burner in the corner lay cool and untouched. It was like the presence of a ghost has vanished and left behind only a soft echo of it's memories, stagnated and cold. When Victor finally brought the tea in, he noticed how the elder Holmes was staring at the pile of crime notes Sherlock left on the coffee table. Setting the tray down and snorting softly at the sight of them, he tried not to sound too much like a pining little school girl as he muttered excuses.

“Yeah he left those here. Part of me is still hoping that means he'll come back....”

 Mycroft didn't deign his comment worth a reply, so Victor held up the teapot with an arched brow.

“All we had was some sort of fruity east Indian tea, so I hope you don't mind. Mum's been working on a case lately involving Asian tea so that's all she's been buying lately. She's trying to figure out how Sherlock could just look at the file she left out and claim it was the brother, even though I told her she'd never figure it out.”

Victor sat himself down on the ragged oak rocker across from the couch, sipping the strongly scented tea and grimacing in displeasure. He watched as Mycroft drank from his own cup, but saw no indication of whether or not he enjoyed or hated the flavours that assaulted his tongue. It was impossible to glean actually anything from the man across from him, except for his obvious hatred of him and his less obvious worry over his brother's whereabouts. Victor watched as he rested his chin on his hands, a gesture that was surprisingly Sherlockian in nature and brought an unpleasant jolt of guilt barreling down his veins. Mycroft's voice was low and serious.

“My cameras picked up on his leave three days ago, out into a blizzard I may add with little more than a coat and a pair of thin boots. Since Sherlock sometimes has a death wish but isn't usually so blatantly insane, I would assume you two had a little.... disagreement?”

Victor bit hard on the inside of his cheek, struggling to control his tongue in front of the elder Holmes. It was a strange sensation, that his brain was automatically telling him to filter his more instinctive reactions. He hadn't had to do it for someone in a very long time, his parents unable to stop him and Sherlock just as bad for flinging scathing reports a person's way. The only reason he bothered at all now was because he half-suspected if he pissed off the elder Holmes enough he would be subjected to a grilling that would be more painful for him than it would be for Mycroft. He had after all been on the receiving end once in a while for Sherlock's moods, and he didn't doubt that his brother was capable of being just as bad if not worse. Finally, he found something in his head that doesn't sound like he was asking for a punch in the nose or a sneer.

“Cameras? You have cameras on him?”

“I have achieved over the past couple of years a _minor_ position in the British Government Mr. Trevor. Particularly to do with security measures. It is no large effort to keep an eye out for the people whom I worry over. Though I suspect Sherlock's caught on to my presence, as he's all but become invisible in the past twenty-four hours.”

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly as he set down his cup with a _clink_ , unconsciously mirroring Mycroft's posture by cupping his chin in his hands.

“You're worried about him enough to have _cameras_ following him? You _do_ know Sherlock Holmes believes there is a special place in Hell for people who try and rule over him?”

The elder Holmes' brow arched slightly and Victor has to clench his hands to keep from dropping his gaze. His voice was low and rough, and he drew an aimless tattoo on his knee as he reflected on the words he wished he could have taken back.  _You Machine!_

“Yeah we fought. I said something I shouldn't have, mostly 'cause he blew up my microwave. Normally I would have cared less, but lately....”

He trailed off, unable to find the right words. How could one describe the feeling of wanting to leave a relationship, and yet at the same time wishing it wouldn't end? How did a person accurately describe wanting to fuck someone into the mattress until they screamed your name, and yet simultaneously wanting to cradle them like a child in blankets and tell them that you would do your best to protect them from the darkness of night? He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and sighs loudly. It was always like this with Sherlock, two extremes fighting for dominance. He hated him. He loved him. He was hopelessly afraid that he was going to reduce the child inside that gangly body to cinders, and yet he could taste the heady flavour of the man that was emerging itself with his ministrations.

He was always on knife-point, quivering and uncertain which side of himself would win out. Would he be the one that could picture being a better person, and maybe helping Sherlock become a better man, or the one that wanted to consume his love like a Demon and in kind restore his sense of sanity? His purpose and being were at war. Hadn't he used others so many times before without issue? Or was there something _different_ about this particular relationship that bound him like a slave to a chopping block and demanded blood sacrifice? The truth was, a part of him had _wanted_ Sherlock to leave, had _wanted_ this to be over a long time ago. He had desired to push the boy away before he irrevocably _damaged_ him, because that was Victor's one and only true nature. He broke people. He broke himself. He broke everything he touched, from his parents who were never home to the many lovers he had won, each left at the end of the day in the metaphorical gutter with at least a few new scars to show for their effort of reaching him. Yet none had before. That was until now. His hesitation to continue onwards was obvious, and Mycroft's voice cut through him like a blade rearing itself between his shoulder blades.

“You realize that I am perfectly aware of the habits you have been encouraging Sherlock to participate in? Cocaine being the largest among a long list of horrible ideas for someone like _him_ to become active in?”

“Better an addict than dead 'cause he slit his own wrists in the bathtub.”

Victor muttered under his breath before he could stop himself, and he flinched slightly when Mycroft's blue eyes flashed with the barest breath of danger. His chin jutted out defiantly, and even though his brain was screaming at him to _shut the Hell up_ , his words come anyway. They were sharp and vitriolic like a poisoned dagger

“Do you know what he once told me? Do you know why I gave him that fucking cocaine in the first place? It was so I didn't have to go through the _hours_ of holding him, of trying to keep his brains all together in his head because he'd shake like a _leaf_ when I touched him. It was like he was afraid half the time I'd hit him or tell him to _piss off._ He hated it, hated feeling weak. Hated asking me for any kind of contact but I'd know he still needed it. There were times he drifted off for _days_ in that stupid head of his, and I'd wonder if I was enough for him to come back.”

He stopped then, teeth clicking together as he gritted them to keep from adding something more cruel: _And I think a lot of his issues was that he was told by a certain_ _**bigot** _ _not to show his weakness._ Still, he knew Mycroft read it in him. Knew that those eyes saw so much more than the surface, because they were the same eyes that Sherlock used when reading him. Cold, calculating, somewhat lost. It was like he was taking him apart inside his mind, finding his hollow and empty core, the blank white centre that should have a colour but didn't.

“That's not the only reason you gave it to him. You can't stand not having an element of addiction about you.”

Victor shrugged, at this point not even going to deny it. It would do no good. He sipped at his tea, wincing as it burned his tongue. Bloody awful flavour, much too laden with crappy perfumes and cheap spices. They were false illusions to mask the bitter taste underneath. Not unlike himself.

“You're probably right. But I warned him from the beginning that I was dangerous in nature.”

“You probably used a different word. Promised him _adventure._ ”

Victor smiled then, his lips quirking into a slightly warped grimace.

“That's the thing. By the time I arrived, he already had come to the conclusion that there's no real difference between the two. Wonder how _bored_ he must've gotten for him to learn to just blur the two together in his mind. ”

He relished the fact that he'd managed to make the elder Holmes frown uncomfortably, even if it was only a slight achievement. Mycroft was unsettled by how Victor at times seemed incredibly bright, and yet could fall into such a bullheaded pitfall of stupidity when the mood suited him. His hands tightened a fraction about his cup, and his voice was suitably detached despite the voice whispering in his mind guilt and grief.

“So you got him hooked on an illegal drug that can have devastating consequences to a person's physical and mental health. Well done.”

“I made sure he only got the pure stuff, and that the needles were always clean.”

Victor sighed, scrubbing at his slightly dirty blonde locks tiredly.

“He's in more danger now, though that bloody Homeless Network he's created for himself is probably protecting him somewhat. He's also incredibly lucky when the mood strikes him, so chances are he's going to hold out at least another week before...”

Again, silence. His throat worked for the words and found none. Though he knew the guilt lay mostly on him, he couldn't help but have that instinctual urge to push his own faults on others. Sherlock had often spoken of his brother in the silence of the night, in those small and rare vulnerable moments when he would act less like a twenty-five year old man and more like the teenager he was. He spoke of how his elder brother tried in vain to hide his differences, to make him fade and not become a target. In a twisted way, it was a logical thing to do, and Victor understood it. Many people claimed that being true to yourself could lead to a happy and successful life, but the plain facts were that nobody was ever totally honest in public. Victor acted harsh to make up for the fact that he wished to be soft, Sherlock acted quiet when in reality he was the personification of _noise,_ able to drive a man insane with the swell of his cresting voice. Actors, all in a play with lines they somehow couldn't recall memorizing but had no choice but to use. Hadn't he once told Sherlock something similar? It was hard to recall sometimes, that warmer and yet shyer time had been quite awhile ago. Now everything was cold heat. Ruthless fire. Scorching ice.

Somewhere out there, Sherlock was probably freezing. Cold and alone, always lonely. Victor's hands clenched then, and a note of genuine softness lessened the edge to his overall presence. A silent surrender came as his mask slipped just slightly to reveal the gentler nature.

“What.... What happened to your Mum?”

If Mycroft noticed the slight change in attitude, he was polite enough to at least no acknowledge it, which probably would have lead to embarrassed cussing and retreat back into Victor's tougher shell. He took a sip of his tea and sat back slightly, releasing some of the pent-up tension in the air like uncoiling a spring. His voice was fairly calm for someone who was informing a near-stranger about his Mother's hospitalization.

“She's had heart problems for years, ever since my birth. In fact she suffered from a heart attack when I was about three.”

There was that distant memory, the one that was impossible. Mycroft was vaguely aware of it, though he wished he wasn't. It was the night his parents had been shouting at one another, shockingly loud because Father didn't usually shout. His Mother's voice rising, her manicured hand slamming down the glass decanter of brandy she had been nursing. Its sharp-faceted landing echoed loudly in his memories, punctuated by the hammering of his own heart in his chest. His mother had abruptly stopped shouting, and from his shadowed hiding place under the china cabinet Mycroft had seen her heeled feet sway impossibly. The glass had shattered to the floor as like a felled tree as she tumbled. His father had been shouting, the sound loud but the words blurred by time….Then wings. There was the spot where dream connected with memory and made it one big elusive pool of muddied water.

“ _Christ.”_

Victor cussed in part sympathy and part frustration, feeling as if this news came at exactly the wrong time at the wrong moment. He considered standing up to go fix himself something stronger than just tea, but then decided against it.He figured he was going to want to be sober for the next couple of hours to come. He sensed something big was probably going to explode, and when shit hit the fan being out of it could get you killed. It was one of the first rules of drag racing, one even the most hard-headed ass paid heed to. If your gut was telling you not to race, don't race. Hesitation would get you killed.

“I found her last night on the kitchen floor of our home unconscious.”

Mycroft murmured icily. What he didn't mention was how pale his father had become when he had come home to find his wife missing and his eldest son restlessly pacing the living-room floor with a half-drunk glass of liquor and a wild sort of snarl in his features. He didn't bother to regale Victor with how Aldrin had seemed to shrink in on himself at the news, for a moment his quiet presence broken by the strangled sound that had made it's way past his lips.

“ _My Violet. Oh,God no.”_

No.

Mycroft alone would have the horrible duty of reliving that scene in his head, playing it when he closed his eyes in his deepest moments of depressed masochism. His voice didn't waver as he blinked the memory away, but he stared piercingly at Victor as if trying to ingrain in him the importance of his words.

“We are... preparing for the worst case scenario, Mr. Trevor. Sherlock needs to be aware of what is happening, he cannot hide from this like he does with so many issues.”

“What do you want me to do? Hunting after him is gonna be useless, he knows the back alleys and underground tunnels better than I _ever_ did, and if he's going through withdrawal he's not going to want to be logical. Believe me, I've seen dudes that look like they could break bricks over their heads just curl up and weep for weeks...”

 

Mycroft drummed his fingers on his knee, quickly assessing the cards laid out before him and hashing together a rough sort of battle plan. He could sketch it out in his brain, the way his brother's thoughts would be laying themselves out. He was prideful, arrogant in nature and prone to looking down on help. He would not accept aid willingly. However he might consider help if he was approached in such a way that would not cause his overblown ego to bruise. Whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, Sherlock was hurt by both him and Victor, the two people he had once trusted more than all the world. The elder Holmes sighed as again he mentally kicked himself for leaving for so long. He knew Sherlock and Mummy didn't get along well. He knew that she rubbed him in all the wrong ways. With Father rarely choosing to intervene, it was possible his younger brother had started to view his parents more like an enemy than a source of guidance. Who would Sherlock Holmes trust enough to listen to reason?

Who had he not angered to such an extent that they would willingly chase after him? Like the time with the little boy who had been forced to swallow razor blades in the school bathroom all those years ago, Mycroft felt like he was pinned to the other side of the fence. He was able to watch but unable to actually give chase, left behind to force himself to view his little brother crashing and burning, erupting into flame. Except there was no strangely polite, dark-haired boy to come and help him this time. There was only an unpredictable _whelp_ that he didn't quite trust and certainly did not enjoy the company of. A man who at first glance was almost definitely Mr. Hyde but had rare moments when his softer, Jekyll side came through, as if his personality never quite figured out who he was because he was so busy being anything _but_ himself. Mycroft felt the familiar tang of helpless childlike frustration, unwilling and unwanting to ask this man before him for help.

“How long before he's forced to come back on his own because of his addiction?”

“Probably at least two weeks. He'll sell what he can first, and when that's not enough he'll sell himself.”

For a moment, Mycroft's mind actually balked. Then it shuddered and stepped back to life, refusing to miss a beat.

“That's past Christmas, she won't make it that long.”

And the cold truth rang loud in the silence, cutting the conversation to an end. The fact was, Victor knew _this_ Sherlock better than Mycroft did. The addicted Sherlock. The unpredictable, cutting, _brilliant_ and slightly driven mad version of the child the elder Holmes knew so well. He did not _have_ all of the necessary data to retrieve his brother in such a way that wouldn't lead to the complete and utter shattering of their already tenuous trust. He had the power to reign Sherlock in physically, and he would if he had to, but emotionally and spiritually was a completely unknown variable. Ironically enough, Victor could cage the soul, but not the body. They looked at each other, and softly Victor quoted a favourite line from a far off tale he once heard. It was one his Mother probably told him long ago, back when she hadn't been so busy. Back when life had still been viewed through the eyes of a child, turning everything golden and pure.

“ _The prayer that prevails is not the work of lips and fingertips. It is the cry of a broken heart and the travail of a stricken soul.”_

Mycroft finished the rest of his tea in silence.

“I take that to mean we are the broken ones then?”

Victor's reply was matched with a beaming smile. It was all teeth, that grin, and the sweetness was gone from those sea-blue eyes. It was washed away like a tide because Mycroft's eyes were glittering ice-blue, and if his moment of weakness had passed then Victor sure as Hell was not going to be caught in expressing something the Holmes' looked down upon such as _weakness_ or _sentiment._

“Only if you feel the sudden urge to pray.”

 

*****

Anthea was not one to normally trust strange Angels in the dark of night, especially ones with warped wings and that were as bare as a newborn infant. She crouched lightly in landing upon the roof, the crisp wind tossing her cinnamon-brown curls gently as her dark eyes took in the creature partially hidden in shadow. Leaning against the jutting upper floor window, Mary was partially hidden in the shadows, blue eyes the only things glittering brightly in the dark. Like twin jewels they took in the cold Angel before her, remembering John's affectionate yet always respectful tone when he sometimes told her about the Guardian of the elder Holmes brother. Her wings quivered slightly as she saw in the pale moonlight the outline of the massively powerful, glacier-glowing wings that stretched behind the stranger's back and blocked out the stars.

_**Anthea.** _

That was her name. As if sensing Mary's thoughts, the Angel before her tilted her head slightly, still half-crouched in a defensive position as if she expected her to attack. Like she would. Angels rarely ever fought each other. It was a taboo, a moral wrong that many shuddered away from even the thought of. If she had maybe been a few years younger and in less control of herself, Mary might have considered it. However she was far too smart to know for a fact that she would be outmatched if it came down to a fight, since her wings were fragile because of their different shape. Still, a small part of her couldn't deny the temptation was there. As it was her upper lip curled instinctively at the look the older angel gave her, as if her approaching nineteen years on this Earth was pitiful and something of a waste. That look did not diminish as Anthea took in the butterfly-like crest of her wings, the warping earning a sneer from her that reminded the Angel of the words that used to be discussed behind her back. Words that weren't meant to be insulting but still left a bitter taste in her mouth. That was the thing with Angels, when they were offensive, they never meant to be. So, you could not get angry at them. Pure, simple creatures that gave offence only in their true observations of her painted body, of her scarred colours.

_**Cripple.** _

_**Nephilim-born.** _

_**Halfbreed.** _

She felt the weight of those terms in that stare, and her chin lifted as if she dared Anthea to even _try_ to pity her. Mary did not apologize to anyone, _anyone_ for what she was unless she was directly responsible for their suffering. As if reading her thoughts, the angel before her smirked dryly. It was a crooked sort of smile, the kind that was pretty but all sharp edges and false. Her voice was clear and bell-like, and her speech was impeccably sharp and well-shaped. She oozed eloquence, and Mary imagined it, dripping from her darkly like poisoned wine.

“So. I take it _you're_ the cause for all of these dramatics?”

Anthea purred, noticing the stiffening of the Angel's spine in the dark. Those wide blue eyes, hopelessly expressive flinched slightly at the accusation, but those trembling lips offered no confirmation nor denial of her question. Anthea's eyes darted over her as she took a step forward, reading in the recoiling of the figure the fear of something half-wild and unused to being approached head on. In that movement she saw the insect-like wings catch the moonlight, appearing as translucent and candy-glass and multicoloured in spattering marks. She also saw the brilliant green that she knew rightfully belonged to John, and quickly surmised that Magic was at work. Keeping her voice to a low croon, she murmured her observations into the dark night as she tried to gain the untrusting creature's confidance, even as one blue eye scowled at her warningly from the other side of the window. Anthea had to find out what kind of spell had been cast, as some were far more binding than others. It would do no good if John had gotten himself tangled into Dark Magic, not that the angel before her particularly _looked_ like she was approaching _**The Fall.**_ No. She didn't have _that_ kind of aura about her.

“There, there....” Anthea hummed softly, hoping to appeal to the baser instincts of the Angel by seeming as gentle and graceful as possible. Angels responded naturally to _light_ , so she was sure to keep her characteristic glower from her features and make herself as small as possible. Being older, it would be the younger one's first instinct to try and relax to her commands. It was an echo of a Newborn's base needs, during training they attached themselves to the older Angels in Heaven during their training. That kind of instinct to obey never fully washed out.

“Hush now. I just want to say hello. I won't harm you little one.... could you please come out?”

Mary fought her base instincts, snarling lowly at the placating tone. She was not a child, she could take care of _herself_ , like she always had and always would. Still, the niggling at the back of her mind whispered treacherously.

_She can help. You can bring her to John... Come on Mary, don't be so cowardly. He might be in trouble..._

 John was her friend. She cared about John, didn't she? Like lulling a cobra into a sense of security, Anthea thought she saw those muscles relax in a fraction of an inch in the dark. A low, husky voice murmured from the dark, laced with suspicion and tension. It was raw with unsure emotion, a plea.

“... He... He needs your help.”

Keeping her voice calm and soft, Anthea allowed herself a little bit closer. This time Mary only flinched, eyes darting up her figure as if expecting some kind of weapon to be revealed and pointed at her expanse of throat.

“Who needs my help?”

The older angel murmured, hoping to engage the younger one into a conversation. She already knew who they were talking about of course, but she had to be sure. She had to gain this Angel's trust if not tolerance for the greater good. Mary shuddered slightly, as if she was afraid to tell her because she was expecting an explosive anger. If she knew Anthea at all, she would have known her shouting is preferable out of two reactions. It was when she went still and immobile, like a jaguar in the impassable dark preparing to strike that her prey should begin to feel fear. Her tongue darted out across her lips, and she spoke again. Hesitantly.

“It's John... He's...”

She winced then, clutching at one wing with a strangled cry. Anthea was close enough that she saw what she has missed in the shadow of the window. The emerald green was spreading, consuming the delicate pane of the wing, but that was not all. Threads of black were weaving their way through like dark electrical wires, spidering across the veins and infecting the rest of the wing, draining it of life. Anthea caught her without thinking as the Angel fell forward, Mary's breathing rasping in her ear dangerously as she trembled. Inside, Victor complained of a headache and excused himself for a moment, feeling thrown by the sudden wave of nausea that arrived as soon as it passed. Mary grit her teeth, and she slowly became aware of someone singing. It was a soft sound, the belled voice lightly brushing the words like the caress of a dove, as if it was unused to not being biting and sharp. Stranger still was that the angel _knew_ that melody, that rhythm that breathed in her ear. It was a tune she'd known her entire life, and her eyes widened slightly as her head snapped up so forcefully that she nearly clipped Anthea in the chin, cutting off her low song.

“How do you....”

She trailed off, unable to articulate her words. The rhythm. No lyrics but _the rhythm._

 _Tap-tap, tap-tap._ It had the exact same time signature and beat as the tune Victor had tapped out all of his life, trapped inside of his head and bringing only the faintest echo of a dream long ago. It was his childhood, his innocence, his last vestige as a kid trapped within a teenager, growing into a man. It was a breath of something he had never been able to fully acknowledge in himself. Mary stuttered, but Anthea was already realising, the synapses of her brain clicking together the answers for her. She felet her jaw drop slightly in horrified shock and dawning incredulity, hands tightening about those bare shoulders before releasing them like her skin burned on contact.

“ _No.”_

She spat the word out, clapping a hand over her mouth and shuddering as she was brought back to a stormy night so long ago, where shouting echoed across her mind like padded bullets, muffled but still oh so clear. Anthea screamed at Mary, fury and disbelief causing her voice to go high.

“You _stupid_ , _**stupid** _ Angel! The Spell's _**Turning**_ on you!”

 

Inside the house, Victor finished retching shallowly into the toilet to take stock of the Homeless girl staring at him fixedly with wide brown eyes in his bathroom. He noticed her flexing fingers that called for a cigarette like the greedy hands of orphans at his pocket, and he came up with an idea. It was a mad one surely, but it just _might_ work. Oblivious to the revelation going on above their heads, Victor called for Mycroft. Both encounters of Human and Angelic nature offer things both given and denied.

Like the world had become soundless, the snow muffled all cries that echoed out into the night, Anthea wordlessly wrapped her arms about Mary, embracing her and _sobbing_ with such deep and unbridled anguish that the younger Angel had no idea how to respond. Mycroft felt the echo of that deep grief, and for a moment he was reminded of the strange and inexplicable grief of his childhood, the him that wasn't _him. Depression._ He had gotten used to these sudden waves of sadness, they merely coated his life at the strangest of points. Pinpricking the sky of his world like watercolour paints, blurring everything. Malaise mixed itself in with all other easily explained emotions. It was the one feeling he did not understand within himself. It was in some ways the only thing Anthea ever truly regretted in her Bonding with him.

 

*****

When Sherridan closed her eyes sometimes, she saw him. Like an old photograph, it's memory was faded and pock-marked with many years passing by. Smiling sweetly, that cherubic face greeted her in her most desperate hours of need, and kissed the brow of her forehead, drowned her in kindness and cruel, cruel sunshine until she felt the price of her choices whip her into submission with invisible bleeding stripes. In the darkness of his Chosen's sleep Aldrin was woken by her cries, unable to see but able to _feel_ the pang of loss that he didn't even understand but instinctively sympathized with _._ His silence was an unconscious sign of his support, her own voice slain as a sacrifice to her emotions, only to be used in the loneliness of the shifting nightmares of opaque evening. When these moods struck her, only two people could possibly hope to draw her from them. One of them sat by her side now, his touch drawing her back to the pallid reality of the present and keeping the past from biting down on her skin and dragging her backwards, thirsting for madness.

She floated by the hospital bed now, recalling in silence. Remembering as she stared fixedly ahead, the slight figure lying in the bed seeming pale and fragile and soft under the frosted morning. Her hair shimmered with it, like waves of sweet fire that cascaded down her back in beautiful contrast to her lightly freckle-dusted skin. Rupert thought she looked like grace itself as the dawn painted the outline of her wings with gentle, massaging fingers. It lit the underside of her turquoise wings aflame with rich satin-like ripples, illuminating her eyes that flashed with memories of the past that created the tension along her arched spine. It set the sparkling dress she wore aflame with movement of glitter. He sat half-reclined on her lap, so his face tilted upwards at her. Normally she wouldn't let him do this. Normally he wouldn't have conceded to it, he had his pride after all.

However he couldn't really stand at the moment, and her lap was as comforting to him as a familiar blanket was for a child hiding from thunder's crackling wrath. His wing pulsated lowly in pain as it curled itself inwards, trying in vain to make itself smaller to lessen the span of agony. It didn't work. He was certain she could see that by the way he winced and had to ground his teeth to keep from crying out softly. On the bed his Violet's heart monitor skipped a little, then returned to its regular beat. Constant. Steady. For how much longer, well... Rupert suspected no more than three days.

He could feel their time on Earth was coming to its end. The simple pull in his gut was a sensation that no Angel was aware of before their time came and yet they knew instinctively. Its purpose of being was to call to him. Now it tugged just under his ribs, whispering for him to loosen his hold on the soul of his Chosen. It rewarded him as he slipped inch by inch with a soothing sensation to help him cope with the discomfort of letting go of something he had so long been the sole protector of. It was like an agonizingly sweet journey, like drifting in a cool lake on a boat. It was sailing to an unknown destination that still called to him despite its nameless murmur.

Sherridan didn't speak above him, just showed him how it hurt her by the gentle touch of her fingers, stroking back his dark hair gently and cupping his cheekbones. Though no tears fell from her face, he didn't mind. Angels didn't cry often, not for something as small and temporary as Death. In his head, he heard her soft sigh, the pained noise hushed as she pressed a soft kiss against his temple. Though Aldrin had long since fallen asleep by his wife's side he stirred with the action, murmuring gently in his sleep and searching blindly for her hand. Finding it, his fingers tightened about the limp digits fractionally, and he relaxed back into the depths of sleep as he found himself solace in her existence for a little while longer. It was strange, to see such a normally relaxed and poised man break to pieces. His hair was uncombed, his eyes lined with exhausted rings. In all of his years of knowing Aldrin Holmes, he had never looked so undone. Around him were files and notes, stacked nearly a mile high on the floor and organized into haphazard piles. If one were to look, they would see the dates of more than one file were overdue. Always working, even with his Wife at her deathbed. She would have insisted on it, which was why the gesture was heartbreaking instead of rude. He sighed, ever so softly. So many years of memories. He had grown fond of Aldrin and his quiet ways over time. He had even come to care for him almost as much as he cared for his Violet. There had been terrible times but there had also been some very, _very_ good ones. His Chosen would not have been the same without him.

“It's not your fault.”

Sherridan's only response was her hands tightening slightly in their interwoven position in Rupert's hair. He watched her eyes slide past him slowly, landing unerringly on the scar nestled in his wing. It was always there, a vivid reminder that he wished he could hide from her so she didn't flinch so. His voice was faltering, but he tried his best to distract her as one shaking hand cupped her cheek. Guiding her like a frightened child back to gazing in his eyes, he spoke.

“Everything _must_ die old friend. It is the natural way of things. We die, and then we are _reborn_ in a constant state of energy. Angels Bond, then they live, then they return to their home. Just because our time is shorter, doesn't mean it wasn't fulfilling. Violet feels the same.”

He pressed his thumb to her cheek, willing away that distressed expression captured in the mirrors of her eyes. Eyes that he remembered first reminded him of the inside of juniper flowers. He could remember the first time they met, and how well they had gotten on, how he had seen the brokenness there, strange for a Newborn. Except that was never what she had been, hadn't it? No...His thoughts trailed off reflexively. 

Before he could catch that inkling again his attention was diverted by the soft song singing above him, the lyrics words that were long familiar to him, notes even bars that he could remember even in the most terrible of times and feel an unreasonable calm by hearing. He wove his hand through hers, the knuckles brushing against each other, and he listened to the words of the lullaby that Sherridan sang in her echoing and yet somehow quiet voice. It filled the empty hospital halls in the rising morning, setting everything aflame in brilliant soft-edged gold.

 

_Lullaby my baby,_

_Lullaby for you...._

_Lullaby my baby,_

_Lullaby luh loo...._

 

*****

Sherlock was getting used to feeling cold.

Like a Vampiric force it followed him, seeping into his clothes and down into the very marrow of his bones. It got under even his coat collar and the cuffs of his sleeves, and made his hands shake with more than just withdrawal symptoms. The bloody snow turned everything into a frozen _wasteland_ of sleeping cars and buried signs, and he shuddered from inside the mostly empty trash bin where he had been laying low, tucking tighter against the few blankets that had been given to him by his Network. _Why did it have to snow this year?_

His mouth tasted sour, and he supposed he probably was beginning to reek with the stench of not only three days of being on his own but with garbage as well, given his sleeping habits. Not that he slept much anyway. He was always on alert, on the lookout in case some unlucky sod got the idea into his head to jump him for what little belongings he had. He had seen the results of muggings before in both crime scenes and from personal view with some of the acquaintances he's made over the past year in the building of his Network, and most of the time the damage was appalling even by his standards. What a person wouldn't do for a quick buck, Sherlock didn't want to know.

 

John kept a watch out for him when his Chosen was simply too overcome by exhaustion to keep his eyes open any longer, eyes quiet lamps in the darkness, alert as possible given the circumstances. It helped that Sherlock was now forcibly sober, his Guardian could now think instead of becoming hopelessly lost in the drowning tangle of drug-induced thoughts that reared up and tried to consume him. If Sherlock found it strange to be homeless, John found it even stranger. The Angels here were unlike any he had ever seen before in the cultured daylight of the city.

For one, he rarely actually saw one directly. Like wraiths they crept alongside their Chosen's like a shadow, most of the time completely bare and more than just a little bit filthy. Many had scars like his winding up their arms and legs like coils of serpentine twine, glinting ugly in the streaked and smoky lamp-lights that dotted the underbelly of London sparsely like golden eyes. They were halting, half-crouched animals with wings that were covered by as much dark dirt as dark colours, and where the colour black was rare to see in the general public of London, here almost everyone had a touch of it speckling their primary feathers. It was strange, but John found it difficult not to get sucked into becoming like them. He was tense, resorting to base instincts as he Guarded his Chosen. He felt half-poised to strike at the nearest danger at any given moment. When the other Angels saw John, they often spared him a smirk and a sort of half-pitying glance. It was as if they knew he was starting to become like them, and they knew just like them he wouldn't be able to stop it. It was as inevitable as diving head-first into a free fall. Frightening still, was that there were nights when John believed them. He wondered if that made him bad, a failure as a Guardian. He found he didn't want to know if the answer was _yes._

 

*****

Kat was the fastest of the Network. She knew it too, because Sherlock _himself_ had once praised her speed. She knew every short-cut of London like a well-worn path locked in her mind. Ever since she had run from her mother's house when she was scant more than thirteen, she made it her mission to be aware of every single hiding place. She knew every single eye that hid behind every crack and cranny. She knew which paths were dead-ends, which roads were lined and echoed with blood and which paths spoke of hidden dangers like a crass kiss pressing against the cold stone. She could outrun even the most determined copper, and she prided herself upon even being able to be fast enough with maths to figure out the sometimes complicated strings of theories Sherlock would murmur under his breath when he didn't notice her presence. Or rather, ignored it.

She supposed that man rarely let _anything_ pass him by unnoticed. She was right sure she could get to him within the time limit Victor had set for her. After all, she owed him. The older teen didn't like to show it but he had a bleeding heart for teens on the streets, and Sherlock had saved her ass from freezing more than one Winter during desperate times. He had even saved her life, after a copper tried to question her age and why she wasn't at home or at school. Kat was many things, a thief, a con, and sometimes sadly when she absolutely had to be, a whore. Yet she was honest, and she kept her promises when she could. So that morning she ran out into the snow, dark black hair shimmering in the early light painting the city and bringing the streets of London to life. She was a mouse among wolves as the people of daylight began to shuffle out of their quaint little homes, too tired or too oblivious to look too deeply into the fast-fading shadows for the young teen who was already moving by the time their eyes passed the spot she once crouched. She was invisible, a ghost, soundless. Well, she and her best friend, Samantha. She paused to smile over at the freckled girl beside her, the short blonde hair she sported under her cap glinting dully. Yes, together they were speed demons. Able to weave effortlessly through a crowd, connected and yet not physically touching. She would be hard-pressed to describe their relationship, like friends and yet not. Something more. Not lovers, no. Just so... _aware_ of each other's thoughts and needs. They were all but one person, so much so they were often mistaken as siblings, though they looked nothing alike and Sam had only appeared about the time she had moved out. 

Speeding forward, together gathering information from casual hands that they passed, scraps of information written on coffee cups and passed by word of mouth in exchange for information of their own. Kat sold them the fact that Sherlock's Mum was dying, and in exchange they gave Sam his location. Teamwork, like dominoes falling into place. The Network, a living, breathing organization of passing news, constantly shifting in shape.

 

*****

“ _What does an Angel become when they turn against their base nature John?”_

John was vaguely aware he was imagining the voice in his mind. It made him shiver, hounding him in the drug-induced state that Sherlock had put the two of them into. His Chosen lay in an opium-ring run warehouse, staring intently at his hand even as he lay flat out on his back. His green-blue eyes were wide and dark with pupil-blown focus, and they shimmered like kaleidoscopes in a twisting and churning way that cannot be reality. John's eyes fluttered, and he struggled to listen to the soft voice by his ear, to remember Mary's words.

“ _I don't know..... What?”_

Her giggle, soft and high was plunging him into darkness that fireworked into red-hot agony. He could feel the brush of her lips on his cheek like the faintest touch of velvet. John's head snapped back, his entire spine arching as Sherlock's body rejected the drug he'd injected himself with forcefully. It was willing him to die an early death via heart-attack. It took all of John's will to keep that heart pumping, to keep the frantic pounding in his ears alive. He could taste the shadow of death, like ash and concrete on his tongue. Mary's voice murmured softly, fading away along with his sense of what is real and what is not. She whispered to him like it was a secret, one that she perhaps told him when she knew he hadn't really been listening. One she had whispered in his ear while he had been lost in the tidal waves of Sherlock's mind.

“ _There's two options John.... and I don't know which one is correct..... ”_

His world crumbled like a stone mountain giving way in a shattering crack of thunder. In the darkness, her voice was tiny.

“ _They either become Demons... or they become Human... and frankly I don't know which myth I'd rather believe..."_  

*****

In the end, it took Kat two days and a half. Sherlock proved to be an incredibly worthy opponent to her skill, even while high and in an increasingly unstable emotional state. What finally tripped him up was the overdose, because it slowed him down enough for her to catch him in the dark, trying to make a bed for himself in a tree by the park. Silent and lithe she creept, except that John saw her Angel immediately and subconsciously nudged Sherlock into wakefulness. He was exhausted and in pain, but he was up instantly, scowling down at the shuffling figure down below. Her Angel, a freckle-dusted creature with brown and beige-speckled wings smiled rather cockily upwards at him and offered the slightest nod in John's direction. It took John a moment to realize that Sherlock could actually _see_ her too, minus the impressive stretch of tawny-coloured feather arching behind her gracefully. There was actually little black in those graceful wings, which meant that either this Chosen and Guardian must be fairly new to the streets...or that the dark-haired girl that waved jauntily up at Sherlock was far better at being positive than most people. John shrank against the tree in suspicion and curiosity, eyes narrowing. He had never actually _met_ one before, an Angel that was actually _On Active Duty. OAD._

He tried not to feel the vaguest ache of jealousy in his chest even as he landed sprightly onto the soft grass. A moment later, obviously recognizing the young girl even in the dark his Chosen climbed down sulkily after him. Sherlock landed gracefully, despite his obvious crashing symptoms and the slight tremor in his left hand (nervous side effect, something John would have to heal if not take onto himself later on as Sherlock couldn't have a shaky hand and hope to play the violin). Kat eyed all of this with slightly narrowed eyes of sympathy, her own track marks and burns upon her fingertips a tale she'd rather not retell. Not that the Detective couldn't see it in her anyway, as was obvious by his first question. Both a question of worry and a backhanded way of trying to piss her off, as was the man's style.

“Did you finally escape the brothel, use the fire exit on a Friday like I told you?”

She tried not to flinch, though beside her Sam stiffened ever-so-slightly. John saw those tawny wings for a moment flash a silent warning of blazing gold. She did not like Sherlock Holmes, but she understood by now that this was how it always began. The man must take everything apart around him before he could reassemble it back together like a trained mechanic in that unnervingly stunning way of his. Lifting her chin, Kat responded with a steady voice that refused to waver, her hands out of their own accord tracing the hand-shaped bruise that still lined her hip. It was fading, but still a very real memory of her life only a few weeks before.

“I did. Owe you my life, sir. Place done got bust'd in a drug's raid. Th' new D.I's apparently really tightenin' the belt on the crime rate.”

She reached over then, silently taking Samantha's hand in a moment of comfort. The sense of touch is addicting between the two, electric. The most comforting feeling in the world. The two friends stood side-by-side, a solid force against the detective. Buffering his tongue so it would not cut them. The darkly-curled teen grunted non-noncommittally in response to the words of praise, palming his pockets for a cigarette and scowling when he found none. His voice was a barking order.

“Out with it. _Don't_. Bore me.”

Kat's soft dark eyes narrow in a moment of hesitation. She knows this is usually her boss' natural behaviour, but in light of the information.....

“Don't'cha want to hear who it's from first?”

She stalled, to which Sherlock snorted like she had said something incredibly stupid.

“Judging from the brand of smokes sitting in your left pocket and the decidedly clean jacket Samantha is sporting, I'd say it's..... from him.”

He redirected away from saying _Victor's_ name with a small and unhappy frown. He was frustrated by the resulting tightening inside of his chest at the reminder of the blonde teen. Kat stared at him for a moment, shoving her hands in her pockets and straightening her shoulders with a small sigh. Her voice was grudgingly admiring as she pulled out a smoke, tossing one reluctantly over to Sherlock after he gave her such a look of unabashed want that she blushed like a little girl. He grinned at her without remorse as he lit it, inhaling and scowling just slightly as the flavour hit his lips.

“This is low tar.”

“It's all Sam lets me smoke.”

Kat shrugged, blowing smoke into the air with a small reflexive smile. Then she became serious as the flame glows in her hands, the cold snow spitting slightly as she flicks ash onto the ground. “You're only half right. It's from two people, the letter. They tol' me not t' open it, but you know me....”

She made a smoke ring, winking casually.

“M' sticky fingers can't stay away.”

In return she was given a knowing smirk, Sherlock's silver eyes flicking up into the dark searchingly as he thought for a moment at what it could be. Soon his answer was laid out before him as the teen hunted through her pockets, retrieving the cream-coloured post from her pockets (now slightly stained from sitting alongside an old fish and chip wrapper and a tube of lip-gloss she had swiped from some tourist for it's lovely coconut smell) so that he could see the expense of the seal on the front. He scowled at the coat of arms, a raven pressed against a blade, and folded his arms in front of his chest in refusal as she held the package out to him.

“No. I won't be my brother's keeper any more. I outgrew the instinct to run to Mycroft long ago. Foolish you even brought me such a thing.”

He spat into the snow, and John caught the vague shift of annoyance coming from Kat in the way Sam's wings became tinged with ginger-red. The teen rolled her eyes in impatience.

“Look, don' shoot the messenger _git._ M' just tryin' t' make a livin'.”

The teen growled at her and turned away, making as if to climb the tree in response. Sam's voice ringed out in the silence then, thoroughly fed up with _his Majesty's_ royal pain in the ass behaviour.

“ _She's dying you know.”_

For a moment, John's wings twinged a fearful streak of yellow-orange. Quickly it recovered, going back to black and green, but not fast enough for the Angel disguised as a Human to see. She smirked silently, wiggling her fingers in the barest brush of acknowledgement towards John. She knew. Sherlock made himself pause gracefully, instead of his first instinct, which was to fall out of his tree. His voice didn't quake as he snapped out a single question.

“Who?”

 

In response, Kat held up the letter, placing it gently on the foot of the tree. Her hands tightened from cold and sympathy in her pockets, voice low and too-gentle for anything in that package to possibly be good news. And then, because his figure was too solitary and lonely up in that tree, and because it's almost Christmas and Kat can't help but feel grateful and indebted to this man, she added

“If ya need anythin' Mr. Holmes, that'll be extra. However, company's free. Come 'ave a drink with us at sometime. You's got friends all about if you only look, despite watch'a say.”

Then she patted the tree-trunk with an almost delicate caress and turned away, and Sam stretched her wings languidly and followed, shooting John a surprisingly gentle look before she went. That gaze was filled with understanding instead of pity, and he was unsure about how it made him feel. He watched as Sherlock gripped the rough bark of the tree trunk for a moment longer, half-debating on leaving the letter abandoned in the snow. He might have stayed that way forever, if the wind didn't pick up, threatening to pull the envelope into its clutches. Within second those pale hands snatched it up, tearing the paper open to read its contents inside. It took only a second, but in that moment everything changed. John's head snapped up as he heard the thoughts cross Sherlock's mind. The panic. The guilt. He was barely on his feet before he was soaring after his Chosen, who was already frantically recalling exactly where the next stop for the tube was.

*****

Mycroft got the call at his work. Both the one to let him know that his little brother had been spotted, and that his Mother's time was short. He placed the phone back into it's cradle in his empty office and in a rare display of emotion carded an exhausted hand through his hair. Then, using his dark umbrella like a crutch he heaved himself upwards, notifying his secretary he would be leaving early. Then, he adjusted his tie and suit, making sure he gave away nothing as he strode out into the quiet night. After all, a Holmes must look presentable, must appear to always be in control. His Mother would have smiled if she knew that at least one of her sons listened to one of her favourite rules on the night that she passed. Or maybe she would have smiled either way. After all, Violet was just happy she had two boys who came to see her, at the end, though in her chest she never doubted they would. 

In the dark of night, creeping like a thief in the shadows, Sherlock hesitated at her door, half-hidden as he wondered if he was even allowed the honour to walk in. After all, this was probably all of his fault, at least that was how he saw it. He had left, and she just had a heart attack? Couldn't have been a coincidence, there was too much evidence. He found an unfamiliar sensation of nausea creeping past his lips as he considered the fact that he might be a murderer. 

Was that all he was? A killer? Not a physical one, no. He did not cleave living flesh and blood, did not hunt down his prey in busy cities and capture them to perform tortured experiments on them. No, as usual he killed in a way that was different from most. Extraordinary in its nature. He felt a hysterical bubble of laughter threaten to burst from his throat, and he fought it back by biting harshly on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper blood running down his tongue. It was a bitter taste, reminding him cruelly of his mortality, of everyone's fragile existence on this Earth. Had he been there, would she have been fine? Would she had lived if she could continue to tell him how much of a failure he was, taken a few more breaths if only she had been allowed to chastise him for his experiments and his solidarity in that irritating way she had?

Was he a murderer of hearts? The question yielded no answer in his head, and he felt himself desperately wanting a hit all of a sudden. The crave was staggering, and he clenched his eyes closed and shook with the force of it, trembling despite his stature like a small child as he licked a stripe across his lips with his tongue and his fingers twitched. Of course, in the darkness of his Mind-Palace there was nothing but a great din of noise, his memories pulling everything up they had of _Violet Holmes-Mummy_ , as if they morbidly wanted to go over every acute detail he had ever taken in upon her. Her voice, layering themselves a thousand times over with just the many ways she used to say his name. Happy.  _Sherlock._ Furious.  _ **SHERLOCK!**_ Confused. .. _.Sherlock?_ Proud. Those rare, impossible moments when she actually expressed pride in him. In how he was.  _ **Sherlock.**_

They filled his head, drowning him in noise so that he cries out blindly, covering his face with his hands and biting into his own skin to will the tremors to stop.

 **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_

 _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock**

Sherlock **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock **Sherlock**

 ** _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock  **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_

 _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock**

Sherlock **Sherlock _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock **Sherlock**

 ** _Sherlock_** _Sherlock_ _Sherlock_ Sherlock **Sherlock** Sherlock

**_ SHERLOCK HOLMES-  _ **

 

“Sherlock!”

Gasping, the teen woke up to find he'd curled himself up onto the cold floor of the hallway, knees tucked tightly to his chest like he used to do inside the hollow tree stump at school and behind the toilets where he'd cry when the other boys couldn't see him. Above him, hallowed in dim hospital lights was a familiar face, cupping his cheek lightly with fingers he knew so well. The man's expression is tired, but also relieved.

“Victor.”

He tried to shrink away, but he was just too weak. Hating his own brokenness, Sherlock numbly registered when the older teen's fingers gently brushed under his eyes, catching tears and wiping them away with a softness that Sherlock had both hated and missed in the days he's been gone. Warm, they were so warm. He was shocked to discover that the mind-numbing coldness that had invaded his very bones was already fading away, humming into the air and evaporating with that physical contact and _oh,_ Sherlock _wanted_ it. He _wanted_ to just collapse and let Victor hold him so much that he let out an involuntary whimper, and the older teen correctly interpreted it as an invitation for _more._ Except not the heated, angry _more_ that once defined their relationship, the heady and hazy mix of adrenaline and explosive passion turned into a different kind of desperation. No. Victor saw that and gently wrapped his arms about Sherlock's quivering body, holding him to his chest and allowing him to be weak just once more. The darkly-curled teen gripped his collar then and sobs once, quietly.Then he was shaking silently against his leather coat, tasting the flavour of nicotine and cherry gum, of whiskey and gasoline and _bite_ that he had come to associate with Victor, _his_ Victor. Tonight he _was_ his Victor.

The soft, unbearably gentle one that Sherlock always secretly craved for company, the true person underneath the layer of masks and false illusions. There was no need for illusions now, because both boys were intensely aware of the other's faults and flaws and even more aware of their own, thanks to the separation. For the moment they were completely each other's, and there is a _chance._ As small as it is, under the magic of night, it existed.

 

Mycroft watched the scene in the background, and he found himself realizing somewhat helplessly that he had no say in this, no choice. There was a lack of control, a lack of any sense of _organization_ or _logic_ to the way the two boys clung to each other, rocking slightly and both crying silently. There was no sense to the comfort of the embrace, there was no connecting middle piece. Only fire and fierce protectiveness that he did not see until it was staring him straight in the face. He leant on his umbrella heavily, sagging with the small epiphany that there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do to stop it. If Victor chose, he could destroy his little brother. End him utterly. There would be no way to stop the burning, it had already begun. Sherlock was already ablaze as shown by the bright red track marks on his cream-white arms that glinted under the sallow hospital lights, and by the utterly wrecked noise he made as he clung to the man like a drowning person gasping for life. Mycroft sat in the chair a few paces behind them, and buried his head in his hands. Perhaps, if he had looked up, he might have seen the guilt lacing Victor's face. He might have noticed the way the boy's hands trembled slightly as he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a deep blue scarf and wrapping it about Sherlock's ice-cold neck.

“So that wherever you are, you never get cold or lonely again.”

He whispered, leaning forward to kiss the fevered crown of his brow. His voice was low.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”

A simple gesture, but Sherlock's brow furrowed at it wearily. Blue-green eyes looked at him, lowering in thought.

“I won't get cold or lonely. I have you. _Idiot_.”

He sighed, resting his head on the blonde-curled teen's shoulder.Victor stroked his hair and said nothing.

 

****

_Loneliness._

_It ate at her like a carnivorous parasite, niggling into her stomach and turning her insides black like a black hole. It blocked out the stars and made her world dark. Dragged her heavily down like weighted water and made her eyes as black and soulless as ink._ _Sherridan thought that this must be what it felt like, to die._ _She wondered if that's what **he** had felt like, kicking and gasping into the world only to die a moment later. The vision flickers across her mind, her wings snow white and yet bleeding a sickly red-grey. The colour of grief. The shade of her world in the moment that she was born. _ _Happiness snatched in a breath._ _Life stolen in a moment._ _Forgotten._ _Alone._

_Those that tried to help her driven away by her screams and her contagious mourning that turned even the cloud she rested on slate and desolate. When she would cry out lightning would fork the sky, driving itself towards the Earth unerringly below and striking the writhing sea._ _She lay there for a long time, fiery locks turning dead and lifeless. Skin as sallow and ashen as brimstone. She was apart from time and yet connected to it, and still she could not detach herself from that one moment, locked away in her brain._ _He had barely even breathed._ _Barely even cried as he was pulled from his Mother's womb, small and tiny and helpless and yet oh so beautiful in her eyes._ _Her beautiful, beautiful baby. Her Chosen._ _Yet only a few hours old her joy turned into indescribable pain, and people watched on in fixated horror as her wings twisted and quivered as she experienced death before she had even been given a name._ _Before she had even been known as a person._

_Then later, given a name that she bore like a title even as she rampaged through Heaven, cast out because of the raw destructive fervour that she had lashed upon everyone within striking distance._ _**Sherridan.** _ _Wild or savage._ _Or in English it's meaning, Searcher._ _She who searched, f_ _or that's what she did._ _She looked desperately, falling upon the Earth and looking for the child she never got to know. Calling out for the baby who wasn't even given a name._ _Wasn't given that right._ _Like a ghost she haunted the city her Chosen had been born into and buried in, searching and searching, remembering only the soft blonde hair and gentle blue eyes that had looked at the world in such wonder before turning dark._ _She never found him, as hard as she looked. And decades passed, and she became forgetful of who she was._ _**What** she was. _ _A thirst drove up in her, satiated only by the promise of finding a connection. That vain hope of filling the hollow space within her soul. Until she was driven to a bridge one late, misty night, looking probably for all the world like a phantom as she emerged from the fog and peered curiously at the scene before her that she did not understand._

_The woman held the bundle in her hands tightly, gripping it too-tight for such delicate cargo inside. Her figure, shrouded by a long green cloak and dark curls, hid the tears that streamed down her face. Her voice was low as she clutched at her throat the simple wooden cross about her neck and muttered driven prayers, leaning down below to look at the slate-grey waters that roared and splashed hungrily against the rocks._

“ _En la puissance de J_ _ésus Christ, disparaît Démon!”_

_She spat to the wind, her cloak belling out into the breeze even as she began lifting the bundle up over her head. The cloth about the babe came undone, and in that moment Sherridan saw a mop of golden curls and a tiny, unfurling wing, and then she saw red._ _When she had finally come back to herself, she sat rocking the tiny, Nephilim-born baby girl in her arms, humming softly even as she wiped away those tears with shaking, bloodstained fingers. Stroked those tiny wings softly, knowing they would some day fade entirely._ _Hafling._ _Blonde._ _Alive._ _So much potential, locked in those little limbs._ _Precious to her._ _Her song mingled with her tears, the ultimate price paid for the infant's life even as she sang to the sweet and low wind._

 

_Lullaby, Lullaby,_

_Lullaby for you...._

_Lullaby, Lullaby,_

_Lullaby for two..._

_Lullaby my baby,_

_Lullaby luh loo...._

 

_Her wings were blacker than coal and tinged with red, and Sherridan knew she had lost her mind even as her vision darkened, and she saw the old man with the long white beard regard her with sad, regretful blue eyes even as her grip let go of the bundle, and she fell forward. Unable to stay awake._ _Limp._

 

_*****_

There was a knock on the door.

Sherridan's eyes opened softly, already aware of who was behind that thin piece of steel. Her song cut short, alerting Rupert to the presence.

When Sherlock appeared, his eyes were rimmed red. However, his jaw clenched and he walked forward with purpose as he regarded his Mother, pale and lifeless on the bed. He saw the prone form of his Father, unable to bear being awake even though he desperately had tried to keep his eyes open because he knew. Though she could be imagining it, behind John the fire-haired angel thought she saw a flash of blonde curls and her throat tightened, and she became lost in the memories once again.

 

_****_

_“I can take the pain away Sherridan.”_

_Father had whispered to her gently, cupping her cheek in his childlike hand. She sat before him, bound in chains enscribed with powerful runes, clinking against her neck and tying her wings down so that she could not even stretch them a feather's breath._ _She did not fight the containment._ _She deserved it._ _She was a monster._ _She was silent like the hand of Death itself, staring at the Creator with dull, lifeless eyes. In those lavender depths she only could see the child that had once again been taken from her, and it tore at her heart. Bore down on her stomach until she shuddered away and moaned, agony filling her._ _He knew._ _He knew because he could read every thought that passed her mind, and he visibly winced as he was onslaught with her pain, her agony. Her fury. He held her hand as she sobbed, rubbing soothing circles into her knuckles because he knew that pain, and knew there was no true way to make it better._ _He could only make do with what he had._

_“I can stop this pain, if you'd like.”_

_He murmured encouragingly, and oh, she wanted to believe him._ _She wanted the burning agony in her heart to numb, to turn to cold embers. She wanted to feel nothing if anything else. She would be content giving up even her emotions if it meant relief from this constant torture she had suffered from for over a decade._ _Her whimper was wild and raving as he stroked her hair, holding her like she was an infant against his smaller chest. Her voice was cracked, it rasped and dipped in strange places from disuse and makes her sound savage, j_ _ust like her name._

_“The baby.... Please.... let her live.....?”_

_She knew that if Nephilim born are found, they were killed._

_She knew it was for the best, and that she really had no bargaining chip._ _She knew._ _Yet he looked at her, and his gaze was full of compassion as he pressed a kiss upon her cheek, wiping and cupping away the tears that stream in golden liquid down her face._ _The tears of an Angel, pr_ _iceless and terrible._

_“You have my word.”_

_He breathed against her ear, and Sherridan slumped against him, unable to do anything but cry and beg for release from her agony._

 

_*****_

“I know when you shouted at me, you never actually meant it.”

Sherlock whispered at the foot of the bed, seeming dark and ill-at place surrounded by so many white sheets. Beside him, John knelt at Rupert's side, silently taking his hand and wishing his him good-bye, not even caring how close he was to Sherridan. The teen's hands tapped on the plastic footboard, and from the harsh noise he flinched before clenching his palms until his knuckles turned white. His voice was tight, wired. Like it was before he's about to do something dangerous, was except there was no danger here. Only Death, peaceful and waiting. Quite literally.

They smiled at John when he noticed their presence off in the shadow of the far end of the room, for once not taking the form of a woman in white. Instead they were a young man in an impeccable white suit, dark hair slicked back and swirling amber eyes glinting with a hint of something otherworldly. The angel got the distinct impression that in that smile was a sort of gentle apology, a silent salve that eased away some of his own agony and made his eyelids droop for want of sleep.

“You always thought-”

And Sherlock's voice cracked, the deep baritones hitting a sour note as he swallowed and tried again.

“You always thought I didn't notice, that I didn't see how I hurt you. I regret to tell you that I did. Many times. I'm sorry.”

He whispered the last part, eyes closing slightly. He did not cry.

“I'm sorry. Sorry that I can't be who you wish I could be. Sorry that I'm a bully, and a liar. That I smoke like a chimney. Sorry that I see the worst in people and see the good only after I've pushed them away and sorry- ”

And he breaks off, and John feels the armour cracking, smoothing over as Sherlock's iron-grip on himself came through, only barely.

“Sorry. That I'm not a good man.” Then, because his feet couldn't hold him any more, Sherlock stumbled to Violet's bedside, kneeling so he could gently touch the pale crest of her cheek. He looked so much like a child. He whispered the words, and though they were small and sharply edged, they were no less the words of the child all those years ago, still demanding to be noticed. Still selfishly asking for her attention for just a moment more.

“Mother...Mummy... please. Don't go...”

 

*********

“ _Aldrin! Aldrin! Come push me on the swing!”_

_Violet giggled, dancing about the older boy like a little kid instead of a thirteen year old. The older teen scowled slightly, looking up from his book in good humour just in time to see the sun glint off of the kid, no the young **woman's** hair and shimmer like spun gold as she twirled in the beautiful sun-dress she wore. The one he had commented made her eyes stand out. Blue flowers on a white background. _ _Sherridan, her second Bond just as powerful as her first, watched with a gently pained smile as her Chosen stood, more man than child now, and went to give the girl a push on the swings._ _Beside her, Rupert with his scarred wing glinting red in the sun chuckled._ _That scar._ _From one of her bad times._ _She had struck out at him._ _Probably, horribly, knocked a few years off of Violet's life as a result._ _Yet the angel hadn't turned from her._ _Hadn't run._

_He had seen the terror in her eyes, had seen the memories threatening to overwhelm her, and he knew._ _Even as she begged him to leave._ _Even as she told Father she was no good as Guardian, all her past insecurities rushing to the surface._ _Even as Angels glared and snarled at her as she passed, murmuring her name like a curse._

_**Sherridan.**_ _Savage._ _Wild._ _Searcher._

_**He knew.** _

_Yet because he knew, she was unafraid. Though her voice was gone, lost with her last Bond, dead with the child that never got to breathe it's first word, he knew her story. He could kiss her scars, invisible where his were vivid, and not flinch away._ _She no longer felt compelled to wander._

*****

Violet Holmes died quietly at around three in the morning. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft wept, but they watched as their normally reserved and silent Father sobbed and came apart like any man would upon losing his soul mate in every way. breaking at the seams like a rag doll held together only by bits of twine and thread. She was both shocked and touched when she saw the amount of people in that hospital room both Human and angel alike celebrating her life and mourning the loss of her presence on the Earth. Her hand firmly entwined in Rupert's now warm and vitality-filled grip, she smiled and cried, kissing each of her boy's sadness away and finally wrapping her arms about her husband in way of final goodbye.

“ _I loved you so much, and I'll always love you. Forever. I'll see you soon dearheart.”_

She kissed into the shell of his ear. Then, her mind filling with the now unmuffled knowledge of what her Guardian was and the existence of angels, she spun to look at both John and Anthea critically, raising one pale brow at the scarred yet strong soldier and the woman who looked as beautiful and yet as deadly as ice. Her voice was chiding, yet still affectionate and warm. Like they were children of her own.

“ _Take care of them. And yourselves. Or I will be very cross with you if you show up early to the party I'm going to set up for when we all arrive.”_

She turned more serious then, her hand reaching out as she stepped forward to touch John's shoulder. Her voice was soft.

“ _...Lead him the right way... Make him the man he wants to be... even if he thinks he can't...”_

John, unable to speak with such a heavy trust placed on his shoulder blades, could only nod tightly in dumbfounded shock. He felt the weight pressed upon him, the faith of a mother who must leave her children in what she can only hope are capable hands. He vows to himself never to betray that kind of trust. Then finally, she turned to her Angel, the one who had protected her all these years. Rupert stood for once in his full Heavenly glory, glowing so piercingly bright that it made John's eyes ache and water and his wings twitch with the instinct to kneel before something so dazzling. He was by Sherridan's side, holding her silently in their final farewell as they parted. John saw for once every emotion flickering across the fire-haired Angel's face, her deep love and deep pain, and how she flinched when Violet cameforward at her and smiled. Then, to everyone's surprise, Violet spokethree simple words.

“I forgive you.”

Sherridan, looking like a horrified rabbit caught in the headlights of a truck, only gaped at her somewhat foolishly. The girl in front of her laughed at her expression, taking Rupert's hand and pulling him along.

“Come on goof, the fun is only beginning for us!”

Her Guardian grinned, letting himself be pulled away as like a little child he waved goodbye to his best friend. They stood by Death's side, each of them linking arms with the suited man, who had watched the entire encounter with a patient but somewhat indulgent expression, as if he was used to such emotions. He nodded to everyone as he left, tipping the brim of his white top-hat cordially by way of acknowledgement that the time to go had come. John found himself smiling at the gesture, despite the pain in his chest constricting him.

Sherlock, feeling that strange joy, let a calm rest upon his lips, euphoric with the sudden image that appeared in his head of his Mother making them all attend church. Except in his image she _was_ part of the church, floating and dancing up through the rafters, and it was such a light vision that he couldn't  bear its deletion from his hard-drive. It would stay with him for years to come, and even when it faded, he would still be able to recall with a vague smile rooted in sadness how his Mother always loved Christmas mass. When they faded away, Sherridan actually collected herself enough to wave back. They all bid Violet Holmes and Rupert farewell, in one way or another.

 

*****

Victor had been aware of them for some time now, the white spots in his life. The moments when he froze as if from some bloody brain aneurysm, flailing in a sea of nothing until he resurfaced like a man drowning from a wave of unfeeling cold. Cold that could kill. He was all too aware of what frost could do to a person's body. He'd seen it first hand with some of the teens that had shown up to his house. It was his biggest worry for Sherlock, in the time that was gone. He'd imagined the boy coming back with those beautiful hands bitten by black, that his argument would lead to the silencing of his violin, or the brightness in those clever, clever eyes.

He was also aware that with the white-spots, his reality was becoming more and more heavily affected by the emotion of love. Like his body was trying to make up for all of the moments where he shorted out, he _pined_ over Sherlock like no other person he'd ever met before. He realised how much he'd hurt him, _knew_ and agonised over the conflicting feeling of wanting to drown himself and yet drown the younger teen, if only so he could breathe life back into his burning lungs at the very last moment. He was dying. He wasn't sure how he knew, He just was. Plain and simple. It didn't particularly frighten him, but it did leave him worrying about Sherlock. With his Mother's death, he wasn't sure how the kid would take it. A painful, dreadfully slow descent into the world of the undead didn't seem like a particularly pleasant option, and he loathed at the thought of putting the teen through it. Because he wouldn't leave. He would doggedly be by his side until the end, because the little idiot didn't know when to quit. When most sane people would be screaming for mercy, he chugged onwards, oblivious to what it did to his mental and bodily transport.

Mary also knew they were dying, except she knew the reason. She knew now, because Anthea had told her, had screamed it at her in horror of what she had done. **_Olde Magic_** had a peculiar habit of being heavily tied to base emotions, instincts and fears. Sherridan's fear was that her baby would not live to see another day. As a result, the Spell had formed in such away as to ensure Victor's life, sensing the strong love that still carried in his very blood. An angel's tears. Yet when Victor truly fell in love himself, the Spell warped. Because in his mind, Sherlock was the only one who had to live. His life became the Detective's with the giving of his heart. When Victor began killing Sherlock...The Spell began to unknowingly kill Victor.

*****

Afterwards, Sherlock and Mycroft would escort their father home and the younger of the two would stand on the foot of the Holmes Manor, taking in its austere walls and univiting aura. After all this time, Sherlock felt like a stranger at the gates. Victor waited with the motor running as the young teen looked at his older brother, willing the words on his lips that he wanted to say. That he had no choice but to speak.

“I can't stay.”

He whispered, haunted too much by the woman that once scolded him, hounded by his brain that insisted it was all _his_ fault and because of _him_ her life had been cut. His father's would come soon too, it was obvious in the man's tired gait. He would be a murderer of hearts after all. Instead of arguing, Mycroft's shoulders just seem to sag a little further. He nodded once, eyes resigned as if he expected the answer. Which he probably had.

“I know.”

Sherlock wanted to tell him that it was better this way, that broken things should attract broken things, and he should leave before his brother became just another part of his sharp, eclectic collection of misfits and doo-dads that didn't have any other place to call home. Mycroft could go places. He had a life ahead of him that though it didn't strike Sherlock as particularly fascinating or stimulating, obviously mattered to him. What the teen didn't realize, was that to Mycroft the only reason it was _important_ was because it protected _him._ The elder Holmes looked at the pale, thin face before him, and didn't say what he thought. He seldom ever did it seemed. He had so much he had wanted to say to his mother, yet in the hour before his younger brother's arrival, he had sat by her bedside in mere silence, unsure for once of the right words to use.

He looked past Sherlock for a moment, looked directly at Victor, who sat in the driver's side of his car with a tight lip and a guilty conscience. One hand ticking away to a lullaby long forgotten as having belonged to his Grandmother, his other hand cupping a cigarette. His last words to Sherlock were loathe, and sentimental.

“You are always welcome back.”

He meant it. He hoped his younger brother could see that, through all of the masks and shams he put up automatically. Hoped his deducing skills were up to the arduous task.

 

****

John received the summons without any warning at all. His Father called him, pulling at their connected link with an insistence that made him gasp and double over with discomfort. Mary looked at him tiredly, and for once he was torn. On the one hand, Sherlock was hurting. On the other, he couldn't very well defy God. He bit his lip, torn for a split second between two wants and two basic needs. Then her voice was there, soft and comforting and trustworthy, despite everything.

"Go, John. I'll look after him."

He had no choice, he trusted her. Trusts her with the one thing in the world he values most. She promised to herself right then and there that she would not back down. That her resolve would harden. That she would go through with her own demise.

****

The house was dark and empty, left abandoned for more pressing matters. It was perfect as they wouldn't have cared even if someone _had_ been home. They were so past caring it wasn't even funny. Together they crashed through the front door, too desperate in each other's wandering and roaming embrace to notice the noise as it struck loudly in the night. It had started abruptly, Sherlock's mind turning inevitably to his Mother's death even as he accepted the coffee Victor had bought him (black but with two sugars, because he absolutely loathed anything that wasn't sweet and right now he _needed_ something sweet). He had started to tremble with the signs of withdrawal, and on impulse Victor had stopped the car at the side of the road, forcing those damaging thoughts from him with an insistent and electric kiss that was as bruising as it was begging for forgiveness.. From there, Sherlock had been unable to hold back. He needed the distraction, and didn't care at the moment about his insecurities or his own mental health. He didn't care that some people may have seen it as wrong given the circumstances.

_He just no longer gave a damn about what anyone thought or said about him._

He wanted. He saw. He took. In taking, he received. Victor's arms were strong as they pressed him against the wall of the hallway, his breath shuddered, almost visible in softly heated clouds as they broke for air. It was cold in the house, his mother having turned off the heating before going to her business meeting. Neither of them particularly noticed, after all Victor had his jacket and Sherlock had his scarf. Both of them had each other.

No more questions, only gentle, burning want that flickers in his eyes. It was good, so very _good_ and Sherlock had to press his lips against the older teen's to keep from whimpering, partly from arousal and partly from the horrible sadness that filled him inside. The sadness that he'd trying very hard to ignore, but now wormed into his chest. Victor did his best to help, leaning forward to lick a stripe across that pale neck, biting down lightly just at the collar-bone in such a way that made Sherlock have to smother a gasp, his hips jerking forward suddenly with the heat that pooled between his legs. His partner in response let out a low and needy groan, his hands tightening reflexively in the nape of dark curls just on the underside of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock felt like the room was starting to spin, sweat beading his brow even as he reached and tried to fumble for something mildly intelligent clattering in his brain to say. However his Mind-Palace appeared to have upended its contents all over the place, at first because of paralyzing grief and now because of paralyzing lust. He couldn't fathom how badly he _wanted_ right now, but if he was forced to describe it his closest accurate depiction would be being pulled back to Earth by gravity. There was no choice, no way for him to stop this any longer. Even more so, there was no was for Victor to stop it either. The blonde teen cursed softly but viciously as his shirt was all but ripped off of his shoulders, shivering as the cold air caused the hair on his arms to raise and goosebumps to pebble his skin.

“ _Fuck_ it's as cold as the bloody Thames in here.”

Sherlock latched upon his shoulder, placing hesitant kisses that send pleasantly warm flashes of heat shivering down his spine. The trail then became littered by feather-light touches, settling instinctually past his arms and around the curvature of his hips and pulling closer. Both of them shuddered at the contact, at the friction that stirred in both of them a primal need that was as intense as the sun itself. Victor grabs Sherlock's hips guiding him slowly away from the drafty front door and in the general direction of the stairs. His lover complies easily, not wanting to break contact but unable to help the low snort that comes from his mouth.

“And how would _you_ know what the Thames feels like?”

He could feel that slow smirking grin against his lower lip, and then Victor is sucking lightly and his tongue is doing simply _wonderful_ things against his mouth and Sherlock groans. His deep baritone ripples throughout his body, reminding him of the vibration of atoms and their electrical energies. He felt like a live atom at the moment, like he was humming and searching for a complete outer shell. That Victor had a few electrons to share. All thoughts of science are cut off as Sherlock is suddenly falling backwards, tripping over the bottom step only to be caught at the last second by strong, wiry arms. They are steady compared to his shaking. He's actually trembling quite a lot, he notices now. In fact, the entire world is shaking. Blurring together. Victor's eyes looked at him then, and a worried line was forming just beneath one pale brow. It took Sherlock a second longer than average to deduce that the line wasn't authentic. It was forced. He felt like he should have been distressed by that, or at least mildly concerned. He wasn't. He felt like he was floating, really. Drifting ten thousand feet above the air, falling gently to the ground like sugar-coated snow crystals...

_Oh._

_**Oh.** _

_**The sugar.** _

_**Damn it.** _

Then he weakly wrenched his eyes open, fighting weakly against Victor's hold even as the older teen picked up his light frame like he was nothing more than a child, carrying him upstairs. It seemed vaguely important that he fight this, though his brain was having trouble coming up with good reasons why.

“Hey. _Shh_ Sherlock. It's okay.”

His voice for a change doesn't calm him. It frightened him. It was not Victor. It was too fragile, too broken. Even in his drug-haze, he sensed Mary's influence even though he couldn't see her. He thought his arm shot out to grip the banister, but it was startlingly weak, and Victor pried his fingers away with a gentleness that was so uncharacteristic that it sent tiny alarms screaming in Sherlock's head that something was most definitely wrong.

Those hands were   _too_ gentle, _too_ delicate, and they lingered in such a way that spoke of a sort of permanent goodbye. Though he was a mess of sharp limbs and elbows, Victor doggedly refused to drop him, hauling his scrawny arse to his bedroom and putting him as nicely as he possibly could on top of the bed. The mattress creaked, and Sherlock immediately triec to move, but the world was tilting like he was drag-racing while smashes, like he was in the passenger seat of a race he couldn't control. He must have made some sort of sound of distress, because Victor's hands are there, stroking his face lightly. Pulling the covers around him tightly,  strong hands held him in place.

“I'm sorry love. _Shh._ There's no other choice.”

The edges of his vision were beginning to darken.Victor didn't use pet names. That thought crossed mind, and it made him want to snarl in frustration as his body unwillingly relaxed against the soft plush edges around him. He heard rather than saw the older teen crashing about in the dark, gathering something quickly from a dresser drawer. Ignoring his faint protests until Sherlock kicked out and managed to make the side-table wobble. At that Victor gave him a startlingly wobbly smile, one that made the teen want to vomit in terror. He wanted anger. He wanted outrage. Anything was better than this strange, fragile stranger staring at him shakily.

“It's just a light anaesthetic. Don't worry, nothing permanent. Just so that you don't follow.”

Don't follow. What did that mean? Sherlock's brain began to click the pieces together, struggling under the haze of drug.

_Follow._ _Leave._ _Leaving him._ _Permanently?_ _Obvious by the drugging._ _No._ _Why?_ _Why leave?_

**“ _Cold as the bloody Thames.”_**

_Thames._ _River._ _Bridge._

_**OH.** _

 

Then he cried out weakly, kicking and struggling. Sleep was already pulling him under, drowning him in calm black waters. Victor's hands were leaving his face, and there was a wetness dripping onto his cheeks. Tears? Not his. But Victor didn't cry.  _Not supposed to cry._ There was something being left right by his head, something cream-coloured and dotted with ink. A voice by his ear.

“ _Goodbye."_

Then his Mother's face was blurring within the features of those sea-blue eyes, turning cold as the Spell finally turned in on him completely, his hand falling limp to his side as Victor was now nothing but cold logic lead by an Angel who's wings were rapidly disintegrating. The final mask slipping away, the last act put on finally breaking to pieces. The character of Victor Trevor himself died with the words _I love you_ still tingling on his lips, unspoken. In the pale moonlight he straightened, a puppet walking away silently. No belongings, he wouldn't need them. Mary smiled softly at the darkly curled boy, already succumbing to sleep. Before they leave she walked forward, gently pressing the lightest of kisses to the inside of Sherlock's wrist. It glowed, the kiss of an angel a blessing for good tidings to come. Even as a cripple, it was the least she could do. There would be no win for anyone, but she could give at least luck to those who might need it. Now there would only be two losers, and she prayed she could pay Sherlock's price for failing to succeed in the competition that was his unfair existence. 

"Sorry. For everything. But this debt will now be repaid."

 


	12. Deliverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a little while. I've had exams but now they're done! :D
> 
> and whoohoo! the moment everyone's been waiting for! Or at least the beginning of it!  
> This chapter deals a lot actually with Judaism and certain mythical elements from the jewish culture. I'm not really an expert but I did my best and did a lot of research, all the while twisting it into my own plot. SO don't murder me please :3
> 
> song is "sleep sugar" by Poets of The Fall. love you all and comments/kudos make my week :P

 

 

 

 

  _Move on and don't look behind_  


_So_   
_Sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in_   
_Like waves of sweet fire, you're safe within_   
_Sleep, sweetie, let your floods come rushing in_   
_And carry you over to a new morning_

_Day after day_   
_Fickle visions messing with your head_   
_Fickle, vicious_   
_Sleeping in your bed_   
_Messing with your head_   
_Fickle visions_   
_Fickle, visions...._

 

 

When John opened his eyes, he is no longer coasting in the Wintry air. His breath is no longer trailing out from his lips in a soft fog, and there is no speeding car travelling down the road at a break-neck pace well above the speed limit. Rather, the warmth is startling, and his wings automatically ruffle with it, searching for it's source with affectionate longing. It is the kind of humid heat that is hot and dry, rather than humid. He inhaled and tasted air instead of feeling like he was drinking water. Blue eyes darting about, he felt the sun beat down across his shoulders like the crack of a whip, quickly making him wish that his choice of clothing today hadn't been a woolly green jumper. Quickly adjusting his mental perception of himself, he projected the image of a simple collared shirt and thin-material jeans. He didn't feel like burning, even though it was difficult for an angel's skin to blister and peel like a Human's would. It is when he looks across the barren landscape before him, sand blowing and making pyramid-shaped dunes in the distant of amber and beige, that he sees that he is standing in a desert.

As expected, he is not alone.

 

The strawberry-blonde boy stands a few feet away atop of one of those dunes, and John allows himself a moment of amused chuckling as he sees the way the child is dressed. Brightly coloured board shorts in a shocking lime green colour come to rest just at his scrawny knees, contrasting sharply with the light blue top that had it's collar left unbuttoned and opened at the collar bone. Banana-yellow shades hid those violet-blue eyes, but the angel could tell by the tilt of his neck that his Father was staring directly, impossibly at the blazing ring of sun overhead. He squinted, wondering if perhaps God found some sort of sense of masochism in the act of boiling his own eyeballs out. He supposed even the Creator of the universe occasionally became bored with just the same kind of monotonous pain over and over. The boy is not standing alone. Beside him are three angels, two strangers and one that John recognized instantly. He felt his lips tug upwards in a small smile at the unruly mop of blonde curls and grey-blue eyes, watching as Harry stretched her delicate rose-tinted wings forward and back to keep them from going stiff. In the sun her feathers rippled like the pale dusky tone of quartz under light.

She raised one hand in a jaunty wave as he kicked off lightly, kicking up golden-brown sand as he flew over to the group of people all seeming to be expecting his arrival.

When he pulled up and folded his wings against himself respectfully, he got a better look at the other two angels standing off to the side. They were two contrasting figures, and one sent a flash of vaguest recognition tingling through John's lower spine.

The younger of the two.

Without turning from his pointed fixation on the sun above him, his Father spoke.

 

“Harry dear, can you introduce John to the two who'll be helping him?”

 

_Helping me?_

 

John wondered to himself, but his Birth-sister smiled at him in a comforting way and turned first to the older angel, bowing low in a respectful manner that made John realize immediately that this quiet, dark-haired man must be an archangel. The younger angel felt himself slightly awed and unnerved as he met those golden irises, feeling a wave of dizzying power wash over him as they glowed with a barely-contained fire. He bowed low, keeping his wings folded and submissive, reeling from the power of the creature before him. Waiting for the signal, he is silently relieved when the older angel lightly brushes the barest edge of his right wing, signalling his acknowledgement of John's subservience. The sensation is startling and jolting, almost making him nauseous with the wave of unnatural feeling. For a moment his feathers flash the same shade of gold as the massive wings that stretch behind the archangel's back. When John rises back to his feet, he is greeted with a pleasant, warm smile. The angel holds out one hand to shake in greeting, and his grip is firm and grounding.

“My name's Michael. It's good to finally meet you.”

 

_Michael._

John thinks, and swallows reflexively.

_The angel of Law and Military._

 

He wonders to himself why he is being graced with the presence of one of the most powerful beings in the kingdom of Heaven even as his eyes trace over the several hundred scars lining the angel's arms and neck. Battle wounds from the _**Ancient Days.**_ At his hip in stark contrast to the plain white pants and t-shirt he wore, a sword glittered with dangerous power held in tempered steel. An attestation to the angel's position and incredible strength, as normally unless an angel was actively on duty on Earth they could not touch a weapon without it burning. John tried not to feel like he was being looked over by a ravenous wolf as he somewhat meekly directed his gaze to the smaller angel crouched on the desert floor.

This one was bare, his skin the golden hue of caramel that contrasted starkly with the midnight-blue wings that stretched out sharply behind him in curving deadliness. His hair was decidedly on the longer spectrum and ever so slightly shaggy, fanning out over high cheekbones and eyes that were dark like a starless night. It gave him an appearance of mysteriousness. On one wing was a splash of palest blue in the shape of a hand-print, and on the underside of them both the deep grey shade of grief lining the smallest edges of the primary feathers. Upon his chest was the most curious thing, a tattoo coloured brightly just under his collarbone. It was a heart sheltered by two wings, tangled together and bound by dark vines. John stared at it for a moment, wondering at its' meaning. Not many angels at all bore ink like this.

A thin mass of bones and sinuous muscle, John could see in the angel a hidden amount of strength. Not unlike Sherlock's body type. Crow regarded the angel thoughtfully from where he crouched, observing the changes in the angel that he had only glimpsed all those years ago, tucked into the pocket of his little Chosen to keep from drowning in rain. The angel that stood before him was no longer a Newborn, but approaching the cusp of adulthood. His wings were nearly perfectly angular and adult, and spoke of power in the muscles that supported them along John's back, hidden under soft clothes. Deceptively stocky body, but it held potential with proper training to become deadly strong and steady. Not very tall, but then again not many angels could ever be considered tall next to Crow's build. He was genuinely stork-like.

His eyes land on the scar on his left shoulder, stretching painfully across the expanse of otherwise unmarked skin. His feathers were a mess. Ruffled and disorderly, and sickly shades of black and grey mixed with hazed red and only the barest hint of emerald green in colour. Signs of addiction and exhaustion lined the angel's every muscle. Crow felt the vaguest of protective urges come over him, an emotion he readily crushed underfoot. John was not a little brother to care for, despite how he wished that Addie and his angel Onyx were still around. There was a slight resemblance actually at least in colouring, between his good friend and the man before him. Onyx had blonde curls the colour of spun gold and sea-blue eyes, but because of her Chosen's disabilities had never been able to take an adult form. In appearance she had seemed to be no more than a small child, her wings downy and feather-duster-like.

She had been too weak to protect Addie in the end from the car.

Too small, too fragile.

Crow had always been foolishly protective of her, even though he had been younger.

 

He still saw her occasionally, but he didn't get to visit Heaven as often as he would have liked.

That was where the resemblances between John and Onyx cut off.

This was no child.

This was the beginning of a warrior.

A soldier.

 

Though it's obvious the angel before him doesn't recognize him, Crow feels a slow smirk crawl up his features. John listens to the husky voice that is much gentler than he expected it to be introduce himself.

 

“Name's Crow. It's good to see you've managed relatively well, John.”

 

The angel doesn't miss the implied tone of recognition. His eyes narrow before his Father finally looks away from the sun and smiles at him, a relaxed and celebratory grin that immediately makes John brace himself for either wonderful or truly horrifying news. His Father's hand claps him smartly on the shoulder.

 

“John, how would you like to become an _OAD?_ ”

 

For a moment, John's entire world tilted on its' side. He felt like he had stopped breathing, and had to check to make sure he was still standing as for a second the sandy dunes before him ceased to make any sense to his brain. All he could see for a moment was the image he would sometimes guiltily imagine in long hours of the night, pining for the dream of it when he thought no one else would notice. Him and Sherlock, walking down the street. Just talking, his Chosen's head tilted slightly towards his in conversation. A crooked smile playing on his lips. _Seeing_ John. His eyes _meeting_ his and recognizing him as a friend. _Knowing_ he's there.

He swallows the hard lump in his throat, suddenly having to make sure he's heard his Father correctly and that his mind isn't playing horrible tricks on him. It'd be just his luck, to turn stark-raving mad just when things were finally starting to take a turn for the better.

 

“I'm sorry, could you.... could you repeat that?”

 

Beside him Harry giggled, her brash voice rich with amusement.

“I think you broke him Father, John can't seem to close his mouth. He's gaping like a codfish!”

 

He manages to click his teeth back together as he suddenly comes back to reality, his heartbeat stuttering then picking up at double speed. John isn't even slightly ashamed as his voice goes higher with excitement.

“You mean it? I can go? I can be a _AOD_?”

 

At his Father's cheeky grin he laughs brightly, and the sound is warm. Before God can even realize what's happening, he's being lifted up over John's head, seated on his shoulders as the angel grins and spins around in place like a child. Harry joins in on his euphoria, her wings spreading as she flies in tight circles overhead, whooping. The red-headed boy shrieks a little as he is unaccustomed to such blatant manhandling, scrabbling for a hold onto John's blonde locks even as the angel launches himself into the air in a rush of adrenaline-fuelled joy and does a cartwheel. Crow smirks darkly, amused at how woozy the boy's freckled face quickly becomes.

Apparently God was just a bit out of shape.

 

When John finally calms down enough to realize he's airborne, he is breathless. On his shoulders the little boy trembles, his red hair mussed and his sunglasses having fallen off him to land in the white-brown sand. He scowls darkly up at him even as the angel sheepishly lowers him to the ground, ignoring Harry's giggles of laughter and Michael's oddly easy grin as he smoothed down his rumpled shirt. Shifting his feet not unlike a school boy who's about to be chewed out, John ducks his head and tries to fight off the stupid, swelling grin that wants to cover his face.

“Sorry.....sorry.....I couldn't help it.... It's just I've been asking for so long....”

 

He trails off softly, some of the excitement abating as he sees the solemn glint behind his Father's eyes even with he outer glow of frustrated amusement. Slowly, some of John's sense comes back into him as he looks about and truly _sees_ the barren landscape before him, open and lonely and seeming to stretch on endlessly in red and brown paths that trail and connect like veins, bonding into dunes the likes of which many towered over his head. His spine stiffens as he also notes he flavour in the air, the tang of something acrid and almost sulphuric. Inhaling deeply, the angel coughs at the poisons flavour. He notices how Harry tenses slightly beside him. Turning his neck slightly, his blonde hair glitters in the undulating waves of sunlight.

_Christ it's hot....._

 

“Where..... Are we....?”

 

Crow, who has resolutely been silent in his position seated in the sand, suddenly chuckles lowly. It is not a warm laugh.

“Junior's finally cluing in then?”

Michael lets a small frown bloom on his face, and the result is startling. Crow flinches slightly, snarling and backing away like he is expecting to be struck. In fact the other two angels flinch as well, though their reactions aren't nearly so volatile. One cannot truly understand the amount of power an archangel holds unless they have grown up hearing tales of their wrath during the days when battle was a normal event. The truth was that many angels still feared Michael and his brothers and sisters, and to have even the slightest shred of their rage or disappointment targeted at you was almost overwhelming for an angel. As it was the older angel swiftly sent out a wave of calming in Crow's direction, gaze softening slightly as he muttered

 

“It's not his fault he can't sense it. He's still young enough, and hasn't been exposed to much of it before.”

 

John tilts his head to the side, frustrated at feeling left out of something. His voice comes out more insistent than he would have liked, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from whining.

“What are you talking about? What's that awful smell.”

 

Harry, her arms crossed uneasily over her chest, answers as she looked out into the desert. Her gaze is uneasy as she stares at the rippling expanse of land before her, curls absolutely still as not even the hint of a breeze blew over them. The air tasted dry and stagnant. More foul the more John focused on it. Her words make his mouth turn dry.

“It's Dark Magic John. We're on the outskirts of _**Scheol**_ **.** ”

****

When John had been just a Newborn, he had learned about how humans' in their beliefs often shifted over time. That there was no one faith, no one religion that could accurately encompass the entire world and every flavour of belief. As a result, God shifted with the dominant religion of the time period, angels just the most common name for the servants he sent to watch over his human race. Before they had been dubbed different titles, _Seraphims_ or _cherubs_ , _Malak_ or even just simply _Messengers._ Appearances of both angels and God changed over time, in fact sometimes so much so that John could barely recognize the creatures that were supposed to be his past brothers and sisters on the scrolls and texts he was given. Sometimes they look almost to soft and small to possibly survive. Other times they were so fierce and savage in appearance that John was tempted to recoil away from the page, unfamiliar with the burning fury that glittered in the painted eyes before him. It seemed strange, like looking into the reflection of a warped mirror. He couldn't imagine Heaven being anything _but_ Heaven, but apparently it had previous titles that whispered themselves into the very walls. Layered like shadows over top of one another. Of course with this knowledge came questions that bubbled in the young angel's mind, and he had looked up at his Father and furrowed his brow in confusion.

 

“But.... what happens if two things are too different between beliefs? Can you really _change_ something so much that it fits into any faith?”

 

Were all religions and beliefs so similar at heart?

 

His Father had mused on the question with a low hum, stroking the line of his white beard as he debated on how to best answer John's question. Finally those blue eyes had crackled with an idea, and he had leaned forward and searched in the towering pile of literature, finding finally a yellowed scroll that when he unravelled it's contents showed to be written in Hebrew. Old Hebrew. He pointed to a passage with one gnarled finger, tapping it lightly so the ink alighted and glowed a soft golden hue like melted butter.

“ _ **Scheol**_ , John. Here is a good example. It is- was, for a long time a version of Hell. When Judaism was the dominant belief system on Earth, it served as a realm of punishment for sins. All sins, because back then there was still War going on and we hadn't established a way for minor crimes to be taken care of. The price for them back then had been at least a year in _**Scheol**_ , if not more for each sin.”

At the time John had gaped at him with wide eyes, mentally calculating how often the average Human sinned. His entire spine shuddered with the thought. Roughly, he asked what the place was like.

_**Scheol.** _

He could not imagine anything other than the dark whisperings that other angels sometimes muttered about Hell. Rumours and vague assumptions.

God had frowned slightly, his eyes taking on a slightly pained light as he cupped his chin in his hands, trying to find the words before him to better explain. For how could one merely describe a place of suffering accurately to person who did not know the meaning of pain? To suffer? John had only been a child then. His mind essentially an infant's in innocence.

 

“It was..... _hot._ The Israelites, who were the people that created the idea of Judaism, were a race of men who knew how to fear the desert. You must understand John that for much of the creation of their religion they were slaves, working long hours into the sun and watching their comrades bend under both the pressure of whips as well as the pressure of the sands before them. To them Hell was the concept of what they were already often times enduring, except with no hope of deliverance. _**Scheol**_ is a desert, but it is much, much worse than any kind of Earth-made stretch of land. It is so hot that it burns the thoughts out of your mind before they can form, roasts the memories out of your flesh. It carries on for a great many miles, and there are no landmarks in which your can right your sense of direction in. The only thought that it allows a person is the desperate need for Shade and Water. But there is none to be found, as if the desert itself mocks you for being trapped in its' clutches. It gives only mirages to tease a man into insanity, chasing after a distant pool endlessly. Unable to die. Unable to drink. Unable to end the cycle of agony.”

 

His voice lowered to a soft whisper, and John felt his throat tighten in the dreading knot of _fear_ coursing through his body. Something he had never felt before until then. He discovered he did not like the feeling, the sickness that made his heart clench uneasily and the dryness invade his mouth in a metallic sourness. Like sucking on the rind of a lemon. When he had found his words again, John had wound his fluffy white-green wings about himself protectively, rocking slightly in baited anticipation.

“What happened to it? When.... when _**Scheol**_ ceased to be Hell?”

 

God had smiled, his hands folding under his chin. His voice had been cold and echoing in the silence of their lesson.

“It has become a Dead Zone. A world that some still believe in, enough to keep it alive, but not enough to be active. It is where I banished many of the......creatures to participated in the War on _**His**_ side. It is also a place of training.”

 

At the time, John had been confused. He had tilted his head to the side, asking in a wondering sort of voice.

_Creatures?_

 

Years later, he would find himself wishing he had asked about the later clue his Father had hinted at in his speech.

 

****

If John could have, he would have stared at his Father's solemn features for hours on end, trying to read in those completely unreadable features some sort of hint at a joke or a lie. He didn't see anything to hint at the dwindling hope that his Father had just gotten a taste for practical jokes. He sighed heavily, wings quivering with the movement as he crossed his arms over his chest. God to his credit maintained a patient aura of calm as the angel gathered his thoughts together, trying to form a cohesive thought over the tightening panic in his chest that made him want to recoil from the desert and fly. Fly back to Sherlock. Return home and accept the fact that he could live happily as a Guardian without feeling regret. Perhaps linger on this conversation in his head and utter a quiet sigh of longing for what might have been. Because he's fairly sure this is a once in a lifetime offer, and here he is hesitating. Not because he's afraid for himself, but because he knows that there is a catch. John hates sometimes how much Sherlock's mind rubbed off on him, but he was no longer the little angel that ran scared because of gruesome bedtime stories. He was older. He was _tired_ , and he was growing impatient with feeling so....

_lonely._

 

Then he bit the inside of his cheek.

Hard.

Bad thoughts.

Out loud, his voice carried across the desert. Cautious.

“Why now? Why not before?”

 

Michael answers, his rich voice serious with the tension in the atmosphere. His eyes glitter liquid gold in the sun, shimmering with power.

“There is a time for everything John-”

 

“No.”

John snaps simply, and everyone blinks slightly in surprise as the angel straightens and looks at his Father in the beginnings of irritation.

It is a simple movement of his shoulders, the way he rolls his wings.

Yet it is an open act of rebellion, to turn one's back on an archangel when being spoken to.

Lesser angels had at one point in the darker times been flogged for such insubordinate behaviour.

Harry trembled, and Crow watched as Michael's face flashed for a moment in shock before he schooled it carefully into suppressed amusement.

John did not see, his heart pounding in his throat. He personally suspected he was about to get smacked from behind, but he didn't dare turn his head.

He wills his voice not to tremble.

“Don't feed me that stupid line again. Sherlock has come closer to dying more times than I ever want to admit in this past year. He has been homeless, wounded and nearly O.D on cocaine and black tar heroin not too long ago. What's more he's an emotional wreck. I have mostly my own incompetence to blame, but do _not_ try to tell me that it simply _'wasn't the time to act.'_ ”

 

He is surprised with the venom that creeps into his tone, so much so that John blinks and runs a tongue over his upper lip as if tasting for the brush of poison. He could feel anger bubbling deep in his stomach, coiling in on itself in such a way that made him vaguely nauseous and weak. When had he become so sharp? So uncaring of anything other than what revolved inside his own world? He feels like he should be ashamed vaguely, and lowers his head in what he hopes looks like at least an act of apology. In truth much of his bitterness has been festering, clawing inside of his chest like a rampant animal bent on escape. He has no hope of ever properly exorcising the black thing that crawled about in his chest though, as its' fury was directed on the one being who could erase his existence (and Sherlock's for that matter) off of the face of the planet forever. Though he knew his Father tolerated him, and even loved him, he still wasn't stupid enough to actually believe him to be something other than he was.

A holy monster in his own right.

 

His Father's voice speaks lowly after the beat of silence.

It's less angry than John thought it should be. Almost understanding.

Resigned.

“Because now is when he can't go any longer without you. If we start now, you'll get to him in time.”

 

John feels his blood run cold. His head snaps up and his wings flash for a moment. Pure green. Hiding underneath the black and scarred grey. A hint of what lay underneath all of the bad things. Permanent where those more recent marks were more like a stain. Able to be washed out if given the chance to heal. It pulses in time with the clenching of the angel's hands. His voice drops low.

“Get to him in time for what?”

 

This time, God makes a small apologetic sound in the back of his throat before turning away and refusing to answer. John's teeth clicked together audibly, and he is not surprised when Michael's Will comes over him. Pinning him in place. It's for the best really, because without it John might have done something he'd later regret deeply. Sometimes having no real free will could make things startlingly easier for him. Even though it infuriated him to be controlled, he couldn't stop it, not with the archangel being so much older than he was. He finds his mouth is at least under his own volition still as he sighs sharply, deciding to pick his battles.

 

“What do I have to do here?”

 

This time, Harry steps forward. Her shoulders are stiff with tension, but her smile is genuine.

“I wound up assigned on Active Duty to Clara about a year back remember?” Warily John nodded that he did and encouraged she continued.

 

“I was actually _assigned_ to go on Active duty about twelve years before, since the training is.... strenuous and time-consuming to be perfectly honest. Father knew that she would be in serious danger in the future, what with her becoming a fairly high-end business consultant and making some enemies, not to mention the abusive relationship she was in. By the way I finally got to pummel that man's ass...... and so he Summoned me here to start my training.”

 

She gestured as she said 'here' at the expanse of desert, stretching around them in arid hostility.

At this point Father stepped forward, taking over slightly in conversation.

 

“An _AOD_ needs to be able to handle stress John. A good deal of it, I might add. They must be able to flawlessly act human while at the same time maintaining their protective duties. As well they will be targeted by things such as Demons and other unsavoury groups for the simple reason that an angel in its' human form is _vulnerable._ Here in the desert, your emotional and physical limitations will be stretched to their absolute most. You will _have_ to learn how to control your most base instincts just to make it _through_ _ **Scheol.**_ What's more, you will have to use your _Bond_ with Sherlock to remind you of why you're doing this in the first place.”

 

He steps forward then, clapping a hand on John's shoulder. Those lavender eyes peer up at him from behind his shades, and even though they are wide and childlike, they hold a deep compassion. John feels to his horror his teeth snagging on his lower lip, looking out into the vast expanse of the desert in the distance, wondering what lay in its' austere depths. The fact that he simply _did not know_ made John intensely uneasy, like a live snake was coiling down his neck. He breathed sharply through his nose and rubbed at his forehead, and he found himself once again asking questions. Seeking what little answers he could find before making a decision.

Even though he already knows what he's going to say.

 

“Will his happen outside of Earth time? Or will I have to leave Sherlock alone for some length? How long will the Training _take_ anyway?”

 

That's when Crow stepped forward, his dark presence rippling quietly like the wind on a midsummer night. He was soundless in his movements, but his voice again managed to seem deeper than his gangly, bare body should be able to produce.

“You don't remember, but my Chosen's saved your Chosen's butt once before. Remember the dark-haired teen that helped him out in the rain?”

 

Upon John's memory being triggered to that stormy late afternoon his eyes widened slightly, and he turned to Crow and stared at him with a strange mix of speculation and grudging gratitude. His voice caught a little bit, somewhere between a strangled cat and a groan.

“That was you....? I never got to thank-”

 

“Don't. Because you can thank me when you're Training's done. I'm being assigned to look out for Sherlock as well as my own Chosen for the time that you're away. In fact there will be an event in a few days that will lead Sherlock right to Greg. They'll work together. See this tattoo?”

 

And he points to the mark on his chest right under his left collarbone, the shape of the heart and wings now seeming to hold new meaning. Upon closer inspection, he sees that it depicts several vines wrapping themselves about the heart, as if to hold it in place to keep it from floating away. To continue its' life.

John nods slowly.

“It's a Spell. A temporary joint Bond that will let me to a certain extent look out for Sherlock and essentially make sure he doesn't become claimed by Darkness. Essentially as long as I bear this, he's my responsibility.”

 

His smile is roguish and sharp, and John found that he did not quite feel entirely comforted by the angel's reassurances. Though he supposed he owed him at least _some_ trust, since he had quite possibly saved Sherlock hours of further torment and relieving his already traumatized mind. Looking at those dark eyes, he swallows reflexively at the memory of the horror he had felt when he had experienced the ghostly sensation of razor-blades sliding down his throat like it had actually happened to him. He jerks his chin up a little higher, refusing to be so easily deterred from his thanks.

“Still. Ta.”

 

Crow looks at him searchingly for a moment longer, and then he acknowledges the words with the barest of nods before turning his back and stalking away. He doesn't like being so close to Darklands such as this. It makes his skin itch uncomfortably. He is sensitive from the years that his Greg has spent chasing after the filth and the dirt of the world. This much sin and suffering in one place makes him almost queasy. His gaze flicks once to his Father, silently asking for his permission to take leave. He wants to go back to his Chosen, and he is not like Harry, who will wait politely after her friends.

No.

There were things that must be cared for, and Greg currently needed him. He and his wife Anya were fighting again, he could feel it in the tension between his ribs. John watched as his Father nodded somewhat stiffly, and tried not to picture an animal handler unleashing the reins from a black panther. He knew his relationship was better with God than most angel's, but it was still strange to see such a vast difference in level.

Crow treated him like royalty, bowing stiffly and and keeping his wings folded tight against his spine.

Yet there was little love in his gaze when their eyes met for a moment, lavender on deepest night black.

 

John watches as the strange angel almost lopes away into the distance of the desert, just a bit wild and altogether mildly disconcerting. Still, there is a warmth in his general presence that he finds somehow soothing in nature, more evident the further away he gets. A gentleness that he suspects children and animals would be quick to pick up on, if given the chance. Spreading his wings, the dark blue feathers seem almost translucent under the hot sun. Then with a mighty beating of his wings, Crow launches himself up into the air, looking not unlike a crystal droplet of water before he swerved in front of the blinding ring of sun and vanished from everyone's sight.

John stares after him a moment longer, wondering if that kind of angel would take well to someone like Mary.

 

His thoughts however break from their line at another realization. His eyes widen in panic as his chest clenches, the first warnings of his mind screaming at him _wrong!_

“Wait. Harry said it took her.... _twelve years_ to find her way out of this desert?”

 

Beside him, Harry sighed. Her mouth was pinched unhappily at the memory, recalling to herself the heat. The burning. The deep pull of unhappiness and loneliness at being separated from the one person she cared about more than anyone in his world. Her voice was unexpectedly soft with recollection of that pain, like acid staining the tips of her fingers.

“It's different for everyone.... but the shortest amount of time _anyone_ and I do mean _anyone_ has spent in _**Scheol**_ is exactly one year..... and _**He**_ lied his way out.”

 

She doesn't have to say who she is talking about. John knows because _every_ angel knows. His hands clench together tightly at his sides, and his eyes close as he pictures leaving Sherlock alone.

For _years._

His mind halts in on itself.

Stutters painfully to a shrieking stop.

He feels like he can't breathe, and he has to tell himself firmly that it most definitely is _not_ for forever. That he had to wait an entire _year_ to be with Sherlock at one time and that he could wait longer. That it would be _fine._

In response his knees go weak, and he has to try very hard not to let them buckle out from underneath them. He feels like he's found a secret cove filled with the most precious golden treasure-

only to find a trap of a snake-pit underneath the shimmering goblets and jewels. Wings quivering with indecision, he felt rather than saw how the sun beat down on them. Oppressing the very land itself into submission, driving everything and grinding it into white dust that cloyed at his throat and made him swallow painfully. The sort of grit he normally wouldn't have put up with for very long. Even now, a part of him screeched for his immediate return to Sherlock, that he give up on this foolish want, this _selfish_ need to be seen. To be visible. To look into those eyes and once again see recognition. He tells himself it isn't right, but a small voice in the back of his head whispers to him.

_What if he gets into trouble? What if the only way you can save his life is by doing this? Then what?_

 

He doesn't realize that he's keening until the sound registers in his ears. Low and hesitant. Pathetic really. He hasn't made whimpers like that since he was a child, it was hard-wired into an angel's basic biology as a signal of distress. Though he truly was deeply distressed indeed, he felt his cheeks flush slightly as he forced himself to stand tall. To square his shoulders and grit his teeth against the wave of instinct that made him want to go home and curl around Sherlock like he was little again and simply snarl _No_.

 

Michael watched the entire thing in silence, noting how broad and strong the angel's shoulders were, and how smoothly he bit back his obvious panic to make way for the calm soldierly mask. Privately he was more than a little bit impressed. Most angels didn't bother to hide crying before they entered _**Scheol**_ , the fear of their Bond being torn or lost somehow being incredibly painful to even consider. Not that it would happen as he would be leading John through the desert, as he had with so many others before. He traces the scars on his arms with his fingers in memory of it, mapping out the past excursions even as his features gave nothing away. Harry caught his eye once and she nodded, chin lifting slightly as she ran her own hand over one pale scar just by her shoulder. A small price to pay for surviving the memories behind her. She already knew what John's answer would be.

When he looked up finally, nobody was surprised.

 

“Ten years.”

He states flatly, chin lifting in defiance for anyone to tell him that his time limit was ludicrous. Insane. Blue eyes flashing, he looks his Father dead in the eye. As if meeting his gaze somehow will harden his resolve.

It does.

Turns it to tempered steel.

“I will be gone from him for only ten years.”

 

And Michael, grinning slightly, pulls out the golden chain he wears upon his neck. Attached to the end is a heavily ornate golden compass, except not one that any human could have hoped to read. It has many dials and modules, all flicking this way and that restlessly. There are five hands in total, and as they spin John thinks he sees inside the gears of the curious little object a spark of Magic, humming along it's interior to be fed through the archangel's hand. The angel's golden eyes glance at the surface, and then he clicks it shut, letting it slip back down his shirt. Unerringly, he points to the western direction. In a rare display of joviality, he _bows_ ever so slightly in the younger angel's direction.

“Shall we get started then, John?”

 

When John looks behind him, both Harry and his Father have vanished. He takes a deep, steadying breath and fixes one image in his mind. One single memory.

Sherlock, little Sherlock had once turned to him with a picture book in his little chubby fingers. He had held it up to John and squealed demandingly, wide green eyes flashing with a hint of the defiant sneer that he would prefect as he got older. John remembers in perfect clarity that gaze on him, _demanding_ him. _Needing_ his help. It sends a vicious feeling through him, one of love and compassion and _sadness._ How long had he been not okay with this? When had merely watching from the sidelines become not enough?

Was he really so selfish?

Really so weak?

Yes.

He was.

He was and the sad part was, he wasn't even sorry.

Because he would kill without hesitation if it meant he could once again had that pouting smile turned towards him. He would bloody his hands without hesitation, paint his own wings red.

Inwardly he shudders in partial fascination, partial disgust.

Outwards he doesn't budge.

 

It is a powerful enough image to cause his unmoving feet to step forward, pulling themselves out of invisible quicksand, journeying towards the desert beyond. Michael a solitary guide into the heat that only promised to get hotter the further they went.

_See you soon Sherlock. Be good for me._

 

****

Hot.

That is the first thing that worms its' way into John's brain. Makes it past the screaming red noise that drives into his flesh and tears at him, threatening to bring him to his knees. It licks along his spine like a lover, kissing and biting the tender parts of his feathers and delivering deadly poison in the form of white-hot flame.

_Hot._

The sound of the word alone imprints itself into his skin, whipping at his flesh with flaming lashes that make him have to resist howling and curling into a ball on his side, his wings curling about himself protectively. The only thing that kept him standing was the figure beside him, guiding him forward. Refusing to let him stop for rest.

In a way he is glad for Michael's relentless pace, as it distracts him. Distracts him from the heat that crawls into his brain and fries everything. Fried all sense of reason. Fries his determination. Fries any shred of dignity he has as he wills his clothes away, unable to stand the touch of anything on his skin. His flesh crawls with it, like a thousand fire ants finding their target along his arms and back and legs. He wishes it would stop, almost _begs_ for it to, except that he knows that the archangel would then only carry him out of the desert. Out of here and then it will have all been for nothing. John has no idea how long he's been here, or how far they've travelled. How many steps they have taken, as the sand doesn't move and his feet show a long path behind him.

What he knows he is _thirsty._

 

Which he doesn't even understand _how_ he knows, as John has never been thirsty before a day in his existence. Yet he identifies the burning in his parched throat, the aching churning of his stomach that makes him want to vomit, except it would just leave an acidic taste in his mouth. Discomfort is something he is unused to unless Sherlock is high, and _agony_ of the physical kind is overwhelming in it's ability to cripple. To leave him a shuddering mess as he stumbles and Michael silently catches him, offering no words of support and only structure, the likes of which John is extremely grateful for. He thinks if he speaks, what little moisture there is on his tongue will evaporate.

 

Still the desert stretches out before them, vast and red and with absolutely no hint of an end within sight.

_Sherlock.... The first thing I'm going to do after I meet you is drink all the water in your house...._

 

****

Time passes.

At least John thinks it does. It's hard to tell, in here. There is no night, only blinding day, and it makes it hard for him to keep track of how long he's been walking. It's been a long time, he knows. Sometimes he collapses. Just lies there in the sand and curls in on himself, letting the whimpers break free from his chest as he claws the sad and tries not to sob. It doesn't help, the ground beneath him is just as hot, and on his bare skin it burns. Everything burns and blisters and he is dazedly confused when he holds up his hands and realizes that one of the blisters is actually _bleeding._

Angel blood, a thick blackish substance that shimmers in the sun. Almost like tar. He dizzily thinks it's the same shade as Sherlock's hair, and the though makes him laugh as he sits curled up in the sand. Michael watches him impassively, the hilt of his sword being rested upon by his right hand. He knows to laugh is to better than to cry here. To cry meant to lose water. John had a new appreciation for the substance, a deep driving longing for it actually. He thinks he mutters about it sometimes when he's not paying attention to what he's saying. The muttering has been going on for some time now. A constant, steady stream. At first it had been a way to entertain himself. To distract his harried mind from it's own agony and suffering and offer it memories and stories. John told himself tales about elaborate mazes, dragons that breathed ice instead of fire (oh how he _wished_ for that) and of course he comforted himself with what Sherlock must be doing right now. He tells himself that Victor has probably pulled himself together somewhat. After all, Mary had begun to change. Perhaps if they weren't lovers then at least they could be friends. Yes, John didn't really hate Victor. He brought out bad things in Sherlock, but he had also brought out very, _very_ good things. Sherlock's ability to love. Sherlock's loyalty. Even Sherlock's trust.

And who knows? It was possible John supposed that they may survive after all. He tries not to sound to false in his ears when he thinks those kinds of thoughts. He also ignores the strange pang of _something_ he can't identify when he imagines Victor and Sherlock together, alone and having dinner. Perhaps chatting, the little punk would say something funny and his Chosen's entire face would light up in delighted laughter. Sherlock would get past his intimacy issues eventually, working his way up to not taking _you're too young_ as an excuse. Touch would become taste. Taste would become _feel._ Feel would become _more_ and-

 

John's heart hurt thinking about it.

He went back to bemoaning and craving water.

Went back to letting the sun fry every though out of his blasted brain until he could only consider moving forward. Mechanical. Automatic. Michael watches him in silence, as unaffected by _**Scheol**_ as if he were walking the length of a beach.

 

****

The first time they encountered another presence in the desert, John had been reciting vaguely in his head the first row of the periodic table. It was habit really, something Sherlock did when he was bored and needed his mind to do something menial and boring in order to not tear itself apart. John found it comforted him, for he missed his Chosen's rocketing mind deeply Since entering _**Scheol**_ he had found all mental ties to Sherlock had been blocked, _not_ severed because that would have caused physical pain and insanity of a different kind but.....

Muted.

Muffled.

Like it was drowned out by the engulfing silence of the sand.

So he imitated in his own head the presence of Sherlock's mind. Calling things _idiotic_ or _boring_ and babbling on about past things that had interested his Chosen even if only fractionally. Michael didn't bother to stop him or to tell him he was being irritating, even though he probably was. He just listened in silence, occasionally checking his compass to ensure they were on the right path and adjusting the hilt of his blade.

It happened fast.

One moment the archangel was impassive and solid, dutifully ignoring John's low moans and mutterings of exhaustion and anguish.

The next John was being pressed into the sand, Michael's form standing over him protectively as his two massive gold wings flared out from his spine as if bracing themselves for an onslaught. Wearily John raised his head, looking out into the rippling mirage of the desert, searching for the source of the angel's reaction. He doesn't have to search for long, they stand out like black brimstone against the stark wasteland before them. They are still far away, wandering slowly towards them on stilted, heavy legs that shuffled and sank in the sand. Yet even from his place on the ground John can see the glittering glow of their deep red eyes, and how despite the sun that had long darkened his skin their faces were white and deathly as chalk. Almost grey.

Even from where he crouched, disoriented and suffering because he couldn't think straight, John managed to find the name for the creatures that had been thrown into _**Scheol**_ so very long ago.

_**Dybuuks.** _

They are human-like in figure at least. Though as they approach John can see how deeply their ribs protrude from their sides, their stomachs hollow and concave and stained by old blood and grime from past Hunts. They travel half-crouched, like wild animals as they group together in packs, the biggest one in the lead and raising his pale head to let out a tortured scream that makes the hair on John's arms stand on end and his eyes widen. In response the other pack mates lifted their heads as well and let out the same haunting shrieks, sending shards of ice into the angel's bones even as he curled his wings protectively about himself, shooting a nervous look up at the archangel standing in front of him. Michael's eyes were calm but crackling with suppressed power, his blade unsheathed with an unearthly ringing as he held it comfortably between his hands. On the golden-carved hilt, John can now see the weapon has a name inscribed into it.

  
_Lucian._

  
Light.

 

He can barely see the gold blur of the blade as the archangel lunges forward just as the lead _**Dybuuk**_ leaned back on its' hind legs, close enough to prepare to strike. With him several others mimicked the same movement. Then the entire desert erupted into chaos. Suddenly the air is rich with shrieking snarls, like the cries of some massive and terrifying bird as the monsters lash out at Michael, seeking his life source only to be met by cold steel. _Lucian_ glitters coldly as it spears a _**Dybuuk**_ directly in the throat, spattering red-black blood onto the sand in hot liquid that steams as soon as it tastes the atmosphere. John suddenly wonders if maybe the sands' unusual reddish colour isn't just an anomaly of the landscape as he watches Micheal press his foot down into the dead beast's chest, removing his weapon only to seamlessly lodge it into the ribs of another snarling monster. The archangel is a massive projection of speed and power as he uses one wing to block and the other to strike, his blade finishing off the stunned monsters more often than not with only one strike.

 

Though John is not allowed to kill, he doesn't hesitate to strike out as one reaches past the archangel's guard, using the only thing he can think of as an appropriate weapon. His fist. He aims square for the creature's nose, just above all those snarling and glittering sharp teeth, a little shocked at his own strength as he literally crunches through bone like he's just pushed into butter. He's rarely had to use his power for violence, and can't help gasping a little as the creature's head snaps back, body crumpling to the ground where an instant later Micheal's blade is finishing the job.

 

Later, John would stare at the blood across his knuckles, wince at its' burning sensation. However in the heat of battle, he didn't notice.

 

In the end the pack was decimated.

Their bodies turned into red sand, bright and vivid when the angel cupped some in his hands in curiosity. Except curiosity soon become agony again, the heat settling back into his shoulders and wings. Claiming him where the battle momentarily pulled him out of it. Drowning him in its' clutches.

That was the first time John ever tasted battle.

It however was nowhere near the last, as things lingered in _**Scheol**_ that actively sought out things that did not belong in the desert's sand. Monsters that would later on make the _**Dybuuks**_ appear to be the fluffiest of kittens in comparison.

Over time, he came to crave it.

Need it.

If only because it allowed him to remember who he was.

He stopped worrying about _if_ he killed something, because nothing in the desert truly died. It merely became sand, living in its' own way. As a result, he did not hesitate to protect himself or on the rare occasions when he needed it (and they were truly rare and frightening indeed), Michael.

 

Because as time went on, John forgot even his own name. The sun stole it from him, as it stole his purpose and his identity. All that there was for him was the desert, the walking, and the angel he once knew the title of, holding the golden compass in his hands.

 

****

_Who am I?_

The thought comes in his mind, slow and unyielding. Like honey dripping down from a hive, it was slow and lethargic in nature.

Thick.

Under the heat of the sun, the angel wished he could whimper.

Wished he could make some sort of noise to express his pain. Except the desert had dried all moisture out of him. Drained the words from his throat.

Killed and fried any semblance of cohesive words.

 

Sometimes, when he slept, he thought he almost dreamt of a flood.

Or at least, came as close to dreaming as an angel could. It was more like a collective collapse of his body as it refused to move any further for a few hours. Perhaps days. He'd stopped trying to keep track of time so long ago.

It rose and swelled and crested over his mind, a dark tidal wave that brought the blessed memory of cool to his lips and made him want to weep openly, except that would mean to lose moisture again. Sometimes in the tidal wave, a name would come to him. It would lick its' way into his mind, supporting him. Though he didn't know any more who it belonged to, he felt a swell in his chest every time he thought it. He knew it wasn't his own title, no.

The person was a stranger to his heat-addled mind, but he still clutched desperately at him.

_Sherlock....._

_SherlockSherlockSherlock._

 

It whispered, and with it came images that he did not recognize but comforted him. The feeling of a soft bed, of curling around a head of dark curls. Protecting. Long nights where a pale face stood under the moonlight, eyes closed as they leaned against a polished violin and played such achingly sad music that the angel could taste the grief behind it like bitter salt on his tongue. Like a ghost he'd fade all too soon, burned to ash in his mind as the sun pressed down. Always burning. Always in pain.

Always.

Yet in those moments, those brief moments of sleep, the angel felt himself encouraged to keep moving. To not let himself lie in the sand, to be buried by careless dunes. His arms would tremble as they braced his weight so he could stand, and his wings would flash crimson. Over time they had no longer bore the ugly grey and black that had once coated them. The angel could no longer remember what the colours meant that he bore now, but he felt like maybe they were better than before. That maybe he'd recognize them someday if he just kept _moving._

A baritone voice would demand that of him sometimes in his mind.

Harshly.

_Get up....._

_You have to keep going. Don't be moronic._

_Coward. Rise!_

_**John....** _

 

Then the angel would gasp, because if only for an instant he remembered why he was here, _where_ he was and _how_ , and most importantly _who_ was waiting for him. He'd take solace in the fact that he was doing this _all_ for a reason, that he _wasn't_ doomed to forever wander _**Scheol**_ like so many others. He'd sob against his clenched knuckles in relief, unabashed relief before Michael as the archangel watched the same thing happen again and again. The forgetfulness. The realization. The crippling agony and the safety in remembrance.

 

It kept John sane, in the end.

 

Sherlock's name.

It kept him from losing his mind to the desert.

Even if it was only a mirage, fading inevitably falling into the fervour and inflammation of his own mind.

 

****

Move.

Walk.

_Hot._

Ignore. Don't care. Keep moving.

_Burns._

You'll live. Keep going.

Ignore.

_Who is he?_

For a moment he stares at the figure beside him, the one with the gilded blade and gold eyes, wings roiling and causing illusions under the sun. The angel thinks he sees a darkly-curled child laughing out in the desert, grinning beside an older boy who floated using an umbrella, his red-brown hair glittering like fireworks. Then he blinked and the image disappeared. A fickle vision too delicate to last.

Don't care.

Don't think.

Just move.

… _ **..Sherlock.**_

 

It became a verb in his head. A mantra.

It meant _to move forward._

 

****

Voice.

Strange, alien in his ears.

He hasn't heard an echoing vibration of another person's lips in so long.

Except they're not from a person.

He looks in the distance, and sees flickering shades. Blurring forms of creatures who have wandered for so long in the desert that they are no more than pale expanses on the sand, their shadows the only things left of their original forms. There is a ghost-like moaning in their passing, one that he softly hears as it sticks in his brain. A mournful tune lingering in the air. The angel does not know much Hebrew, but he knows the words they speak. They beg. They cry even though for them it is far too late.

 

_Deliver us....Deliver us...._

 

And he shudders, because Deliverance is something alien within _**Scheol.**_ A laughable concept that makes his shoulders shake, though whether it's from hysterical chuckling or tears, he cannot say. That is the only time he sees the archangel beside him frown, levelling his blade at the shadows and making a cutting sweep. Like a sigh of lonely breath they disperse, and only the red sand remains. If John were more coherent, he might have asked why there was such a sad expression on the archangel's face for the creatures he had once helped imprison.

 

****

He whispers it sometimes.

Right after he whispers _Sherlock._

He mumbles it when he is begging, begging for it to end.

Cries out.

_Deliver us....._

 

****

A flood.

That is what it feels like, when that compass suddenly begins to spin erratically. Its' needles arching around to hum towards something in the sky. It takes a moment for the angel to recognize what it is. When he does he almost thinks it's another mirage.

Another illusion.

Except the archangel beside him speaks, and he never has before.

His voice is deep.

It sweeps under John's feathers, ripples along his spine. Blesses him with four words.

 

“That's the way out.”

 

As if in response, thunder crackles overhead. It's a cloud formation. Spreading grey in the sky and foreboding. Sending electrical energy into John's blood.

_**John.** _

_**I am..... John.** _

He straightens, and then he is running. Uncaring of everything. Uncaring of danger. Uncaring of the angel behind him, running after him with a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Because this is always the part Michael likes about travelling the desert, is when the angel regains themselves. When the warrior overcomes the animal that takes over in _**Scheol.**_

He is not disappointed. When the clouds break over their head, grey like boulders and just as loud as the thunder rumbles in their ears, John stands in shock as the rain pours down onto his head. Soothing. Caressing. He sinks to his knees, and then onto his stomach, eyes wide as he feels every single droplet that runs down his wings, cleans him of dust and grime and dried blood from too many battles. Scrubs down the arch of his shoulder blades, past the shoulder that was once wounded and is now just a shining scar that starred out and stretched across his skin.

A memory.

And he _remembered._

 

And John cried this time. Truly cried, his tears streaking down his face. Where they landed they glittered a translucent gold, precious, precious Magic seeping into the sand. Mingling with the droplets of water that streamed down his ash blonde hair and ran rivulets down his bare arms. Down into his mouth. He drank greedily, cupping it into his hands by the puddle-full. His scarred hands. Then he lifts his head to the shuddering clouds above him and screams once, the cry long and low and howling. Releasing all of the rage. The suffering. The agony. The humiliation of being broken to the point where one could not even realize that they did not _need_ something to survive. He _needed_ the water now.

 _Needed_ the coolness on his abused skin. The blisters already sang with relief. The cuts were already being cleansed, closing themselves with inhuman speed. He swayed where he knelt, head bowed. Yet not destroyed.

Smiling through his sobs.

Because it was _time._

Because it was _over._

 

And John barely felt it when his eyes slid closed, the drumming of the rain creating a rhythm of a lullaby that only he could hear. Turning the sand on his cheek to mud, not that he cared in the absolute slightest.

Michael's voice is the last thing he hears. Humming lowly beside him. It is filled with uncharacteristic pride. If John had been more awake, he might've realized that the pride was for his success. Instead he heard Sherlock's voice, echoing inside of his head.

“ _Sleep John.”_

 

And his body didn't need to be told twice.

 

****

When he awakes, he knows he is different.

In more ways than one.

Though strangely, the most startling difference for him is the fact that he's wearing clothes. Not projecting them, but actually _wearing._ The material is soft, a worn jumper that looks remarkably like what he would have imagined unto himself anyway. Yet he marvels at he texture, running his fingers along the hems and edges even as he breathes in deeply, and recognizes the way his lungs move and his blood _flows_ in response. He does it again, just to make sure. Then he breaks into a wide smile. A tired one, but an authentic one.

_I'm.... breathing....._

 

His jeans are rough. They feel strange on his legs, though his feet are bare. The bed underneath him is a little bit creaky, but John doesn't mind. If anything, he is more startled by the fact that the bedsit is such an ugly shade of beige. It reminds him of sand, and that makes the angel swallow and his hands start to shake.

Even though it's been a week.

Even though he's had a week to prepare.

He doesn't think he is ready.

He doesn't even know how long he's been gone.

No one has told him.

In fact the only thing he was told was his 'past' on Earth, and that Harry would be acting as his sister. The only thing he was given was a gun.

A symbol of his effort.

A mark of the war he supposedly fought in and yet hadn't. It would explain his tan.

And why his leg trembled.

Also the scar, if _Sherlock....._

 

Then his thoughts trail off, and the Bond pulls at him.

Demands.

So much clearer and sharper than he's ever before experienced, and John gasps.

_Come see me._

 

It seems to say, and John _Watson_ (because that is his name now, _Watson_ ) cannot refuse its' beckoning any longer. He sits up, stumbling upwards only to wince and hiss, clutching for the cane that he was now forced to bear.

Because somehow he knows that if he sees Sherlock now, the nightmares will stop plaguing his soul. Stop drowning him in sand and heat and leaving him shuddering in his new body, unsure of why his new heart thrummed with such brutality or why he cried now so much more easily.

Because John Watson was now beautifully, gloriously _human._

Which was a roundabout way of saying that he had absolutely no _clue_ what that word even meant.

Though he would soon find out.

Soon enough.....

 

****

“ _Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

 

…..Neither. Definitely neither.....

Those green eyes looked at him. _Saw_ him.

And disregarded him with a completely bored expression at the world.

John could've hugged the man. Clutched at him and refused to ever let go. His hands ached to do so, so he clenched his cane tighter. He might have done so anyway.....

If he wasn't busy gaping at how much he had grown.

Not ten years.

More like _thirteen._

“ _I-I'm sorry how did you... know?”_

  
When he smirked, it was not unlike a flood in itself.

And John wondered if his newly made human heart would be able to survive the emotion it brought to life inbetween his ribs.

Something he's fairly sure he should ignore.

Something that whispers a tantalizing moan of _deliverance._


	13. To Be Good Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a little while, I've been kind of having a bit of a rough time lately so my writing's been.... off.
> 
> let's just say that people can be assholes sometimes, especially towards people who don't fit in a box. Being christian but also having been atheist and also being queer and having a love of learning new things about other cultures doesn't always help me ^_^ As a result writing for this piece has been hard....long story short I was moping and now I'm better.
> 
> Anyway, here we go!  
> Song is good enough by evanescence.  
> enjoy!
> 
> You can decide who the song reflects most :P

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Drink up sweet decadence._   
_I can't say no to you,_   
_And I've completely lost myself, and I don't mind._   
_I can't say no to you._

_Shouldn't let you conquer me completely.  
Now I can't let go of this dream.  
Can't believe that I feel..._

_And I'm still waiting for the rain to fall._   
_Pour real life down on me._   
_'Cause I can't hold on to anything this good enough._   
_Am I good enough for you to love me too?_

 

 

 

Memories can be interesting things.

They can haunt a person, more so than any blade or weapon, and tear a mind to shreds if only given the chance. Like wolves they wait in darkness, flesh-hungry things waiting to dig their teeth into unsuspecting victims and rip, shred. They are elusive, non-physical beings, therefore it is difficult to slay them. Harder to erase their presence from an uneasy mind. Unliving, yet they can effectively drive a person insane and drive a grown man to tears.

Yet they can also soothe. Heal wounds of the present with salve from years long ago. It was a price, because these memories also didn't fade easily. The ones that brought warmth to a person's lips and the kind of tears that people were happy to shed, whether in memory for a person they loved or for a simpler time and a simpler place. Sweet lingerings of childhood, and in them they held a Magic that not even an angel could fully grasp or hold, because it was so pure and delicate.

 

Yet John was not comforted by _his_ memories as he lay awake on the bed that had only recently become his, because _his_ memories were not his own. They were a lie, mixed in with careful truths and half-tales, and yet they felt real when he closed his eyes. Which was distressing in a way he couldn't really fully hope to vocalize or even justify to himself. After all, how did one exactly _deal_ with the memories of a soldier wounded in Afghanistan in the shoulder and who now had an intermittent tremor in his left hand, not to mention a psychosomatic limp? All of these injuries John had before of course for various different reasons (the scar on his shoulder from the drugs, and the leg and hand from battles in _**Scheol**_ ) but they changed in his eyes significantly when he woke in a cold sweat and a metallic taste in his mouth with the image of himself bleeding red (like a human!) out onto the sand, muttering _God let me live_ even while his vision faded to black. His 'comrades' in the dreams screamed over him. Like a familiar poison, he could almost taste it on his lips. The gunmetal. The powder. Yet he knew at the same time each time he opened his eyes and stifled his shouts or screams that it was all just a cover-up.

That didn't make it better, as he found that disturbingly enough, his human form _needed_ sleep. He'd discovered it in the first few weeks, before he had moved in with Sherlock and when he had been living in that beige bedsit, learning basic things about human anatomy from Harry. She told him about dreams, how they seemed real but weren't, and how some were scary and some were sweet and how others were just strange. She once told him even while fixing him a mysterious brown liquid called _tea_ that she had once had a dream where Clara had shrunk to the size of a mouse and begun wandering away from her after cheese. She had been forced to keep her away from an absurd number of mouse-traps, more than there were in the small home that they had once shared. John had laughed at the image, and she had smiled before setting him down a cup. Her tea concoction had been sweetened with something called _honey_ , and it was delicious and warm and had made John immediately think of a friendly embrace on a cold Winter's night. He had asked her to teach him how to make it the next day, and he had nearly bludgeoned the teapot to death when it shrieked, thinking it was some kind of Monster. Harry taught him many things actually, the first few weeks he had been Reborn per se into a human form. To begin with, she had taught him how to _walk_ again. When he had awakened in his little bedsit, he could barely _move_ because of the sensations that had gripped him. Touch and feel now became solidly alive things under his finger pads, _sweat_ existed in his vocabulary. _Air_ was necessary. In fact he had nearly hyperventilated as he had sat up that first time, his vision spinning as his brain got high off of the quick breaths he pulled, threatening a faint. Harry mercifully had accounted for this and brought a paper bag he could breathe into, and from there murmured swiftly directions on how to slow his sensitive lungs. Once he had gotten the hang of that, he had to learn how to balance _without wings._ It wasn't that they had vanished, no. Because John could still _see_ them if he concentrated. But they were lighter, frailer now. Like opalescent glass and as a result when he first straightened and tried to stand he had over-shot his strength and went tumbling arse over heels onto the carpet. Much to Harry's obvious amusement.

John found he couldn't care, because at that moment upside down, he had caught his reflection in the mirror.

And _stared._

Because in the cool glass, his wings weren't visible. He was merely a person, slumped at an awkward angle. A tanned face blinking upside down, blue eyes wide and sharp under a fringe of ash-blonde hair. _Visible,_ which he had never been before in a mirror. Slowly he had righted himself, crawling to the rectangular-framed sheet of reflective material with an animal-like awe. He had reach out slowly, so slowly, watching his reversed self do the same. When their fingers met, John felt coolness under his spread palm. He was so close, he saw the condensation of his breath on the glass.

_Real._

_I'm.... **real....**_

 

And when he turned around, Harry was grinning at him in surprise. Because John, although shaky and unsteady, was _standing._

 

So, his lessons on being human had began.

The first week had been focused on just the basics. How to control his body, and its' limitations. In short, John found Harry often showing him how easily he could be injured by example. She punched his shoulder, he bruised. The mark throbbed and turned an ugly purple. She explained the science behind it, then let him heal himself with the Magic he performed best. She herself was better suited to Spells that involved attack. She taught John how to summon the gun that was gifted to him on will, how to have it materialize in his hands and then later, how to have it disappear. When he could do that with ease, she didn't bother telling him how to fire it. Because John somehow already _knew._

It was almost like the weapon was an extension of himself, and more than once he noticed that Harry had a weapon of her own like it that she sometimes sharpened when she was bored. Two throwing knives. They were elaborately decorated and yet still deadly, and they suited her, just like the gun suited him.

The second week was dedicated to how to react to various situations. John was given a new set of rules, similar to the old but with added details.

They now read in his mind as this:

  * _**Do not kill a human unless you absolutely MUST for your Chosen's safety.**_

  * _**Your Chosen is your life of course, so protect him.**_

  * _**He can't know about your true identity, under ANY circumstances.**_

  * _**All the usual things that are off limits are off limits except for killing. See above.**_

  * _**Don't whine. Don't complain. You've gotten what you've wanted. So be happy.**_




 

The last one was his own private rule, but it held still. John really didn't want to ruin his new position, he wanted to stay in Sherlock's life as long as possible. Already Harry was leaving Clara's, her 'life' pretending to take a downhill fall into alcoholism so that she could eventually fall off the map. Except with her 'life' she had used to be _married_ to Clara, something that made John wonder how they managed that sort of relationship since angels' were not supposed to engage romantically. But then again their marriage was never meant to be a permanent thing anyway, only an excuse for Harry to share the same home as her. He was just happy he was only supposed to be a flatmate. Soon he'd be on his own. So his final week he demanded that he be left alone, to deal with solidarity and being by himself with his own thoughts. _**Scheol**_ taught him if nothing else how to ignore things, so he ignored the aching pull to find Sherlock, and marvelled instead at modern and fancy things like television and toasters, and nearly setting his own bedsit on fire during an attempt to bake a strawberry short cake.

He became slightly annoyed when he discovered he had little to no cooking skills, aside from being able to make a good cup of tea.

Then he had nearly attacked the fire alarm when it beeped because of all the smoke, the shrill noise hurting his sensitive ears and making him snarl before going to the plastic machine with a ladle and a frying pan.

 

It wasn't that John wasn't aware of some human gadgets or human needs, it was just most of the time he had been focused on only one aspect of Sherlock's life:

Protection.

So when the more mundane things like hunger or sleep attacked him, he hadn't been sure how to respond. So Harry helped him out the first few weeks to get adjusted.

Then he taught himself.

It was strange too, as his angel brain and human brain over time seem to like to meld his memories together. The false ideas of Afghanistan would mix with images of _**Scheol**_ , and heat would become white instead of red sand and bombs would go off as _**Dybuuk's**_ and _**Werewolves**_ chased after him in the dark. Once in The Desert he had even seen a _**Vampyre**_ , and its' red eyes glowed and haunted him. Yet good memories mixed in too. Images of little Sherlock climbing trees to read, or catching bumble bees on long summer nights as he brought them home to test. His Father embracing him, and telling him he was proud of all John had achieved.

A curious mix of old and new.

 

All in all, John felt like he was still himself, but wearing a second skin.

An illusion of the life that he had been infiltrated into.

 

A twilight zone that he had stepped upon, and hadn't stopped to think of the unforeseen consequences. He might actually complain, if it weren't for the fact that each time he woke up, he woke in the flat.

 

_**221 B.** _

His own flat. The one he shared.

_Shared with Sherlock._

And despite his dreams he'd grin just a little bit foolishly, sitting up in the shadow of the moonlight and listening to the quiet violin playing beneath the floorboards that came at all hours of the night. Once, he had consumed the music greedily in secret, able to listen but unable to show his appreciation of the slow, sweet sounds. He'd marvel at how he came to this, how if he chose he could just _walk_ down the stairs and _listen._

So he did, rolling out of bed soundlessly and perching on the hardwood floor even while opening the door the barest of cracks. He listened to the morose melody that pealed from Sherlock's deft fingers, effortlessly weaving up and down the strings as the pace became a frenzied cry of a longing that at the time John didn't understand, and neither did the Detective. For even though they were connected by a Bond that cannot be broken, they were merely strangers facing each other. Something John learned somewhat painfully in the past couple of weeks before.

His first lesson that reminded him of the lonely existence he must bear.

To get close but never touch. He tried not to reflect on it too deeply as he curled closer to the door, listening to the sad sort of song. And he wondered what must have happened in his absence to drive such an aching note of discolouration into the night sky.

 

Because Sherlock had changed since his absence, and still viewed John as someone to not be entirely trusted. A new life wandering into his, probably too eager and too bright to seem genuine. Except John couldn't help how he felt. How does one tell another person that they are literally the Earth and sun to them and not be seen as creepy or perhaps romantically attached? Because John most definitely _wasn't_ romantically attached, because he didn't understand what romance _was._ He did not understand the emotions behind the characters on the television, why The Doctor would choose to leave His Rose with another version of himself just to make her happy, or why she would accept that. He does not understand why James Bond treats women he supposedly loves so terribly, breaking their hearts in cruel manners even as he saves the world. He does not understand if love is meant to be fickle or true, because from what he's learned in the books he's been given and the television he's watched, it's both. And he doesn't know what that means, or why it distresses him so much that he doesn't understand.

He thinks he understands other versions of love. The love of a parent and child. The love of brothers and sisters. The love between friends, though his only friend so far was the sweet woman called Mrs. Hudson and her elderly angel, Charlie (who had wings that looked like they had once been badly beaten, but were now soft shades of violet and gold and silver). But he did not understand why Sally Donovan slept with Anderson, a married man, or why Lestrade's wife cheated on him and tore apart his fragile hope for normalcy instead of just ending their relationship and going their separate ways. He didn't dare ask Crow either, because truthfully the other angel had ignored him since he had arrived. It wasn't like John could exactly _talk_ to him in public either, given nobody else could see the Guardians not on Active Duty. Plus, the strange angel generally ignored him, his tattoo Spell having dissolved and his expression thoroughly indifferent. Even though Lestrade himself seemed like a nice enough sort of person.

 

He felt cold.

He felt..... _lonely....._

 _  
_The biggest secret.

He felt he wasn't _good enough._

Like a ship floating alone in space beyond even the sun, he could see stars but couldn't reach them. So John listened to the soft music below, able to go down the stairs if he chose but unwilling. Because even though he's known Sherlock for a lifetime, he's really only known him for a couple of weeks.

 

And flatmates don't go downstairs at three in the morning to listen in rapture to their friends' violin pieces.

So he shyly tucks himself away, and listens and smiles for small miracles despite his selfish dissatisfaction.

 

****

A whim.

To Sherlock, that was all it had been.

A whim.

Plain and simple.

He tried to tell himself not to reflect on it, to not tear into his own mind and try and find a more solid reason. Indisputable proof as to why he had acted on his gut impulse and not his mental faculties.

Something he had sworn to never do again.

Perhaps it had been because he was tired. It was possible, he had been hounding Lestrade for ages it seemed to allow him on the case, and the man was stubbornly refusing. Even though he had let Sherlock aid him with so many others, the D.I had been obstinate and stubborn. In annoyance he had barged into the morgue, and probably startled Molly half to death. (In fact, though Sherlock didn't know it, her angel Esther had nearly levitated several feet into the air at his intrusion. Her wings turned a bright embarrassed bubblegum pink). Then he had taken his riding crop to the corpse, and that had stilled his restless energy somewhat. The lash of something physical coming into contact with skin and bruising settling the wave of energy he had felt since the day had arisen. It is like a rubber ball that has been seething and bouncing around inside of his gut for the past few weeks. Different from the usual case high that came, bubbling into his fingertips and driving him forward with crystal-clear calling and seduction. It bounded back and forth in his gut, but it did not whisper to him the way it should. It did not make him hungry for anything the case had to offer. Serial suicides- oh he should be jumping up and down for joy!

It was practically Christmas, all wrapped up in a perfect red ribbon!

Yet he felt himself inexplicably dissatisfied, and he did not understand why. The ball of tension in his gut refused to be alleviated. Not that anyone noticed his snappish moods since he is always terse and sharp......

Except maybe Greg.

All he does however to soothe it is give him what he needs.

Not what he wants, which is much different.

Because what he would very much like right now is a cigarette, but he's been clean of everything for almost four years now. A situation that Mycroft wants to ensure stays the same.

He's almost nauseous for want of it, except he feels a strange emptiness and insistence that his cravings don't usually give him. It drives him to pacing, so that even the riding crop doesn't adequately define his unease, and he soon finds himself digging his fingers into the adjustment knobs of the microscope in the lab, trying in annoyance to glean another clue about the case he was technically 'not' assigned to by using the sparse DNA sample of one of the victims. His legs jiggle in place, but he hangs onto the piece of machinery. It grounds him, and keeps him from wearing a hole into the floor with pacing. The knot continues to swell, to shift uncomfortably inside of him. It is almost like he is _longing_ for something. Except the only thing Sherlock ever longs for still is the occasional hit of cocaine and a case. He has one, and the other would have manifested itself in other ways such as the inside of his arms tingling or perhaps shaking of the hands. This instead is a strange, emotional response, and he does what he does with anything that has to do with something as illogical as _feelings._

He ignores it and buries it aside.

 

Useless.

What he really _needed_ was a flatmate. The little flat he had rented in the more slum-like area of London was functional but not comfortable. Of course Mrs. Hudson had ringed him after she had come from Florida, telling him all about her new rooms open and for sale. The old hen couldn't help but pick at him when she imagined the kind of squalor he willingly subjected himself to just because he refused Mycroft's help. It His upper lip curled slightly at the thought, but he couldn't be too mad at the old woman. She had an instinct to play caretaker, and Sherlock had long since given up trying to avoid being taken under her wing. Still it was always laced with a familiar taste of poison, a tentative relationship that whispered of a pale ghost of past relationships. And he was okay with that, because Mrs. Hudson didn't mind, so long as she could Mother him and they went along in the pretend dance that Sherlock was okay, and that he was all right.

Because he was better than he had been, and that perhaps foolishly brought a chance of hope.

If Sherlock would believe in anything like that.

 

John Watson; he thinks, is a person that instils hope in things easily. He is small, blonde, tanned and has a tentative and friendly smile on his face. An open sort of expression. Almost naïve or innocent, if the haunted method in his limp didn't taint it slightly. Tinge it with the marks of battle. He is so unlike the Detective, tall and dark and piercing. No, John at first glance is all soft edges. Woollen jumpers, button-ups and jeans.

A cane.

 

Perhaps that was why the knot lessened and vanished as he heard the unfamiliar voice chatting up Mike Stamford in the hall.

That was what Sherlock told himself anyway, an reasonable explanation as to why he looked up and just for a moment, felt he had seen those blue eyes once before. Lost in an echoing ripple of a dream, drowned long ago in the wasteland of his discarded thoughts. Like an image that's been submerged in water, it is blurred and faded. There is a flavour of comfort in it, and of a loss so great that Sherlock merely blinks, breathless with the feeling of the ball of nerves in his gut uncoiling with relief. Then he blinks and it is gone, and he can't help the compulsion that comes over him to simply ask, to have the words past his lips. Because he _musn't_ let him leave, even if he doesn't know exactly _why._

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Little did Sherlock know, that John wouldn't have left then if the Devil himself had grabbed him with smoking chains around his ankles.

 

****

_When she sleeps, she dreams of the whips. They crack like bones splitting in two in the air of her illusions, hazy and dark in the smokiness. She can taste the blood in her mouth, watering like saliva on her tongue. It is dry, acrid and coppery. Her gagging is shushed by a warm and sweaty palm to her mouth, pressing her further against the brickwork. Her Mother's blue-grey eyes glitter in the dark, and her husky voice is low and rough. She wonders if she's been crying. The little girl wouldn't blame her. The whips always make her cry. Just the sound of them snapping onto skin. The idea of them as blood pools and trickles down the drains of the Work House._

“ _Please my little chick, we must be very, very quiet.”_

 

_She whispers, stroking her dark hair lightly. Her fingers are scarred and calloused, but they are comforting. They are the only loving touch she has ever known. They make her feel safe and warm, despite the chill in the night air. They are not supposed to be outside of their cots, and she knows this. Knows that if they are caught the Overseers-_

_The **Demons** will beat them. Perhaps kill her Mother. The thought makes her breath hitch, and she tightens her grip on the ragged coat that the older woman wears against the cold. _

_It is always cold._

_But Mother hadn't had a coat before. Now as she pulls her along in the shadows, towards the grates in the back that drain the blood and water that drips from the steam of the pipes, she takes it off. Her hands are trembling as she wraps it about her shoulders, and the girl thinks it is warm._

_Too warm._

_Stifling._

_She doesn't dare complain._

_Doesn't dare make a sound as her Mother's gaze sweeps the empty room, looking for the shadow of one of the Overseers. In the darkness and smog it is hard to tell what is just shadow and what is danger._

_Her Mother kneels in front of her on the dirty floor, buttoning each button so carefully. It is much too big on her, and the sleeves fall past her hands and almost drag on the floor. She is so small, compared to her Mother's form. Yet she still knows that her Mother should be larger. Should have more muscle, more fat than she does. Her ribs stick out under her sparse shirt, and the bruises she sports are ugly and purple and throbbing. They stand by the grate, the sound of the water flowing towards outside echoing. Plinking softly so that the little girl hears it just below the pounding of her heartbeat. It makes her thirsty, because there is hardly any water to drink, but her nose tells her that the water is foul. Poisonous. Her lip begins to tremble slightly, and she wonders again why her Mother dragged her out of bed before the Dawn._

 

“ _Now you musn't talk to strangers. And don't look back do you hear me?! Whatever you do, you **musn't** turn around. Promise me.”_

 

_She says fiercely, and at the time the girl didn't understand. Where was she going? Why wasn't Mother going with her? What was there except The Work House and the Labour? The grate is too small for a full grown adult to fit through, but as her Mother's strong hands pull back the lid the girl can taste fresh air, drifting promisingly on the nape of her neck from it. She licked her lips at the foreign taste, despite wrinkling her nose at the sewage._

_The lid makes a grating noise as it's removed, and her Mother cusses, low and soft. Then she's shoving the girl down into the darkness of the drain, into cold and slimy dank of the tunnels. The water below is freezing, she cannot stifle the gasp that escapes her lips as the icy grip of its' hands. Her ankles nearly give out from it, but her Mother's hands are steady on her shoulders. They stroke her face once, lovingly. Touching her upturned cheeks softly as a small smile graces her tired features._

_She doesn't kiss her good-bye._

_Only strokes her face._

_Perhaps it made it easier for her to grab the lid, despite her daughter's cries for her, and close the grate firmly._

_Her last words to the little girl are muffled by the concrete lid, and she can remember that single grey-blue eye, staring at her through the slat of the drain and shining. Offering her the only chance she will get._

_The only thing she **can** offer._

_The chance that she may live._

 

“ _Run. Run away my duckling. Run and don't look back.”_

_And then there is a horrible, chilling howl. One that wrenches the girls' heart, and steals the blood from her face. Before she knows it she is running, splashing loudly in the dark and grimy sewage, listening to the horrible screams that sound behind her in the tunnel of the drain but do not give chase to her. She runs even though each step sends a shock of icy tremor through her, and flees despite the fact that she wants desperately to turn around, to see what is happening to her Mother._

_She doesn't though._

_Because a part of her **knows.**_

 

_Instead she sobs as she keeps moving, blood and water staining her already tattered dress. Seeping into the fabric of her clothes and seeming to taint her bones with the memory of the very walls. Those so very dark walls. She runs because behind her there is only the fear and the howling and the whips. Those terrible whips. She runs because she knows that no one is protecting her any more. No human, and no angel._

_For though she is little, she knows._

_Knows she has none._

_That no one and nothing ever pays any kind of mercy to her kind._

_Not even God._

 

She wakes with a gasp, sitting in the lush comfort of her covers. Dark hair spills over the side of her cheek as she jolts awake, sitting up and gulping down air softly in the darkness of her room. Disoriented, she at first feels the satin sheets beneath her and thinks it to be grimy pools of water, her ankles kicking away from it like it burns hotter than ash. Then her legs curl against her chest and she heaves softly in a sob, trembling treacherously and trying her damnedest to keep her voice low so as not to wake the peacefully slumbering woman beside her. The memories came to her at the worst of times. Threatened to consume her and leave her without slumber, memories tearing at the vestiges of her mind and threatening to take control of her fears. She will not let them, because she knows now how to appear fearless even when one is shaking so hard that their tears blur the vanity across the room from them. She will not shed tears, for that would distress her lover, curled sleepily at her side. More importantly, she will not give any invisible observers that kind of satisfaction. Instead she forces herself to stretch languidly, cream skin stark white in the moonlight that flows through the gossamer curtains and offers a gentle breeze that caresses her curves and cools the sweat beading her brow. Her aqua sheer nightgown clings to her body, reminding herself that she is alive, and that she is in control.

That she is okay.

That she deserves to be here, warm and safe.

Not chained like a dog.

  
Not whipped unless she wants it, which sometimes she does admittedly.

 

She gently tucks her sheath of long, dark hair against her shoulder then, sighing softly. The necklace at her throat glitters as she touches a hand to it lightly in thought. It had been a long time since she dreamt of The Work House. A longer time since she had dreamt of that face, the one holding so much compassion and so much pain for her sake. With the image of her Mother's face in her mind she feels less fear of the dregs of the dream, despite the fact that with her comes the faintest song of the haunting dirges that she grew up with, the songs of curses and prayers still alive on her lips, unsung but left tingling. Tunes she had long ago forgotten the words of, the language long dead and gone. The unspoken songs seem to fill her ears, echoing in eerie tones in her mind. She shivers with it, moving to spread the covers more firmly across the hips of the blonde woman beside her. Then; slowly she rises, cat-like in her grace as her hair creates a dark wave down the dip of her spine. Her bare feet glint on the hardwood floor as she crosses the space past the mirror and vanity-

passing the dark red riding crop lying on its' shining surface.

 

Her blue eyes glow as she draws back the curtains slowly, the moon creating twin orbs in their depths as she stares at the sprawling expanse of the city before her, twisting and turning below her balcony. Her slender fingers twist against the cold iron of it, breathing in deeply the night air. Even though it is polluted, it smells clean to her. Cleaner than she had once been used to, anyway.

 

And The Woman smiled slightly into the dark, straightening as she gazed at the brilliant stars that glittered in the quiet night sky, the tattoo of two dark red wings spreading down her back and arms glimmering as the gown slips from her shoulders. She twirls around lightly and returned to her love, pausing only to think longingly of the Motherly face in her dreams before she sashayed her way back to the confines of her bed. Reassured that the City still breathed for one night more below her.

For if she was right, things may change in only a blink of an eye all too soon.

And for the sake of the one she loves if no one else, she will be good enough to protect her.

 

****

“Brilliant.”

 

“That's not what people usually say.”

 

“...What do they usually say then?”

 

“Piss off.”

 

That was the first time he ever heard Sherlock laugh with him.

And John, even though he knew they were still strangers, had felt the island of loneliness that he had been sentenced to draw closer, dragged towards the heart of Sherlock's city just another quiet inch.

The Detective didn't even notice.

He was too busy wondering how such a pure sound could leave someone's mouth.

John's laugh wound up being recorded and stored carefully into his Mind-Palace, locked away for further observation later on.

John heard the thought, and smiled softly to himself even as he gazed out in wonder at the city of London. The guilt is almost constant now, like a stomach ache low in his abdomen.

He hoped he could laugh for Sherlock so often that he wouldn't have to record it, he'd just know the sound instinctively.

 

****

Of course the angel knew eventually, that he'd sooner or later cross horns with the elder Holmes. He had been told that Mycroft over the years had only risen in his position and power, but truly he found it just slight overkill and a little egotistical to find himself tracked by CCTV cameras. He resisted the urge to tell the man where he could go shove his fancy cars and kidnappings nonetheless, because a part of John knew it would probably be bad form to tell the mysterious man of the British Government that “He had seen him wet the bed before so he didn't have to be so ridiculously formal and terrifying”. What he _hadn't_ expected even as he slid into the back seat of the vehicle was the soft tumble of brown curls and the crisp smile that greeted him as she turned away from the sleek phone in her hands. He very nearly spluttered.

 

“ _Anthea?”_

 

“Hi there. Having fun?”

The angel giggled, grinning widely at his shocked face as he took in the fact that her wings were the same kind of transparent as his and that she was dressed in a rather sleek and revealing pin-striped suit, the skirt ending at just mid-thigh. He gaped at her for a moment, scrambling to have his brain catch up with what he saw as somehow he mumbled something less than angelic under his breath. Considering his surprise, John thinks his first words to her are pretty impressive.

 

“What in the bloody _Hell-_ ”

 

“Don't worry. Mycroft doesn't have the car bugged. He won't miss me popping out for a few minutes to see and congratulate old friend.”

 

Then John realized he hadn't seen Anthea in years, and there was a sudden pang of affection for the angel he leaned over to envelop her in a bone-crushing hug, burying his nose against the crook of her shoulder and minding her wings. At first she stiffened as most angel's do towards physical affection, but then she tentatively relaxed and returned it. Kind of like a snap-bracelet, on the outside of appearance hard and unyielding, but if hit with the right pressure points collapsible and curled. Her voice is warm against his ear, like an older sister's would be it is laced with pride. Also thick with something else.

 

“You finally came home.”

_Home._

 

Yes, that's where John was. He swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling guilty for wanting anything more. Yes, he was home. Not in The Desert, alive and well and so was Sherlock. Anthea was here, and everything was good and _fine._ He shouldn't complain, not even to himself. His hold tightened on the older angel fractionally, and then gently he pulled away to look at her with curiosity and warmth.

 

“It's good to see you. I didn't know you were an _OAD_.”

 

She smooths down her skirt and leans back into her seat, manicured fingers still tapping away on the screen of her phone. She doesn't look at it though, her eyes are instead carefully roving over John's face, taking in the improved colour of his wings, and the added scars and blows.

He looked older, but stronger. There is weight in his shoulders but he bore it well and strongly. It made her silently relieved.

 

“I'm not. This is kind of a one-time thing. I asked our Father upstairs if he'd be okay with me...... explaining some things. It only lasts for the duration of this car ride though, then I vanish back to Mycroft's side.”

 

“I see.” John says, a little disappointed that he would not have someone else to relate to him with the new sensations, but pleased nonetheless that he had a familiar face to make the fancy leather of the car somehow less foreboding and professional. He allows himself to curl his feet up onto the seat since he's no longer as worried about appearances, crouching in typical angel-like fashion that comes from years of not being able to lean for too long on one's back due to wings, tilting his head slightly as he asked

 

“So what is it you have to..... inform me of then? So far I think I've been doing pretty well...”

_Not really. I'm probably bollocksing everything up....._

 

“Well for one thing, most humans don't just _allow_ themselves to be kidnapped by strange cars. But Mycroft would have gotten to you one way or another, so I can't really blame you. Still it'd be good to protest even if just slightly when you see him. It'll give my Chosen at least the _impression_ that you're somewhat intimidated by him.”

 

John arched an eyebrow in amusement.

“Still likes to be in control of things?”

 

“Yes, and he is now _in charge of most of the government_ so you better give him some bloody respect as he can have you deported. I think our Father might have some words with you then.”

She states blandly, expression showing that she wasn't remotely kidding around. She returned to whatever she was doing with her phone for a moment, cursing loudly and suddenly as she glared at the screen.

“Damn it! That was my last angry bird too!”

 

“Why do you have angry birds on your phone?” John asked blankly in confusion, wondering how Anthea managed to get several infuriated fowls inside such a small device. He wondered if it was somehow a Magic device that she had acquired, like Michael's sword or his gun. She rolled her eyes and muttered something about the uses of educating angels on modern technology, but said “It's nothing. Don't worry about it.” Out loud.

 

“What I need to talk to you about is Sherlock's and Mycroft's relationship with each other. I know how territorial you can be over your Chosen, and Myc might come across as a bit.... possessive of him.”

 

John bristled slightly at the words _territorial_ and _possessive_ , about to argue that he was no more so than any other angel would be. However Anthea noticed and held up one hand with a small smile.

“I know. But things have changed since you've been gone and the dynamic between our Chosen's is....complicated to say the least.”

 

“It was complicated before too.” John muttered a little sulkily, but went quiet when Anthea glared at him.

 

“No. You _thought_ it was complicated before. Now it's a dozen different wires all tangled together, and if you touch the wrong one you'll set off a bomb. Just. Be. Careful. That's all I'm asking okay?”

The angel leaned back against the seat and sighed audibly, pressing his blonde locks against the headrest and staring at the ceiling of the car. Would all of this be so infinitely complicated? Was this what being human was? Pussyfooting around issues and people, never being honest about one's true intentions? It was exhausting.

“I don't think I can do this.” John murmured softly, and to his surprise Anthea takes his hand gently in hers. Her hands are warm and smooth, brushing lightly at the inner vein of his wrist. John is surprised and slightly embarrassed at the rush of heat that tingles along his spine, shivering down to a lower area that makes him cough in shock and horror. However the older angel just laughs lightly.

 

“Don't worry. It's a normal and human response to any kind of touch, it's just stronger than usual since your body is still adjusting to the sensations around it. It will leave soon. You'll be fine John. Trust your instincts. They're solid.”

 

_My instincts are telling me that it would be a very good idea to do something entirely inappropriate right now. I don't think I should trust them so blindly._

 

He thinks distastefully, shifting uncomfortably at the pressure in his jeans. Soon it went away though, just as Anthea said, and he allowed himself a small breath of hope as he looked out at the busy streets of London. He knew his friend wouldn't lie to him, she might withhold information or give half-truths, but if she honestly though he couldn't handle this, then she'd say so. It is comforting, to know that she has that level of respect for him at least. Earning Anthea's trust is no small feat, John knows.

That she thinks at least he is good enough is something.

Still the knot of worry of what is to come doesn't dissipate, turning into a steel ball in the pit of stomach as the car pulled into a deserted parking lot, and he was dragged to meet the elder Holmes.

 

****

“I'm prepared to offer you a significant sum of money-”

 

“Don't bother.”

 

“You're very loyal very quickly....”

_Not so quickly really. I've known him all of his life._

A text. Calling him.

 

_**Come at once if convenient. -SH** _

 

John didn't need to be told twice. Even if it was inconvenient, he'd always come anyway.

After all, he can't say no to him.

Not really.

Not even if he tried.

An angel's will is not his own.

 

“Goodbye Mycroft.”

He says softly.

 

John Watson was gone before the elder Holmes realized that he had never given the man his name. His eyes narrowed as he leaned on his dark umbrella, unsure of what to make of the deceptively fragile man limping away with his cane. He might have imagined it, but as the good Doctor limped away, Mycroft couldn't help but feel like he had seen that retreating back once or twice before long ago.

 

****

Sherlock doesn't know why it distresses him so much when John leaves the flat. He cannot explain it, even as he lies on the sofa and stares up at the ceiling, hands folded in prayer-like formation even though he hasn't prayed since he was a very small child. He doesn't know why the silence of the flat is suddenly irksome, like a rash just under his skin that he cannot scratch on his own. Hateful and boring. A part of Sherlock is always bored. Always demanding more, always greedily screeching at his inner self to find a fix to the overwhelming hum of his mind. Like a computer perhaps, but in his mind it is more of a castle. A fortress that stands bleakly on a hill alone, stoic and cold and remote. Partly his own invention and partly from what he has learned from books, memory tricks that make everything accessible and easy to access if one knows how to navigate themselves within it. He moves within it gracefully, trying to find the manual to his emotions, perhaps to explain why he felt so restless and alone when the silence at one time was comforting and well. There is no new variable, except John. And John should not be a variable at all, he should not compute into the equation at all. He doesn't understand then why it feels like a beginning to an answer, John's smile. His laugh. How it makes him feel.

For a moment, he cannot breathe because of the panic that overcomes him at that thought.

 

Then there is a click of a door opening, and steady, reliable feet walking up steps, and Sherlock shoved the thought aside. Buries it because it is a useless, useless thing that is illogical and pointless and fickle.

 

Fascination.

Fascination and nothing more.

 

John walks through the front door, and his small grin is something Sherlock can feel, even with his eyes closed and his hands folded neatly under his chin.

As familiar as tobacco smoke had once been.

As friendly as another curling smile.

 

And he ignores his mind, because sometimes even the most logical hard-drive can have the occasional bug in its' system.

 

“Hand me my phone.”

 

John Watson is a stranger.

But he feels as familiar as an old friend might. His hands do not shy away the way a stranger's would when they reach out and touch, and his warmth is a palpable, living thing.

Almost too hot.

He is the sun, and Sherlock is the moon. Two sides of a surprising coin, not supposed to work together and yet meshing together like adjacent cogs of a machine flowing in harmony. Like muscle memory, he is exactly aware of where John is at all times. Where he is going, and often what his intent is. Johns seems to be exactly the same way around him.

Strangers.

Yet working together so well it is like they are just different facets of the same person.

Isn't that the definition of friend?

 

…....But Sherlock doesn't have _friends._

 

He is not good enough for them.

 

And John, hearing that thought, feels a pang of sorrow deep in his chest.

More than ever, he regrets that he couldn't come sooner.

That he couldn't have convinced Sherlock earlier that he doesn't have to act like friendship is a thing he doesn't deserve.

But he cannot change the past.

So he will do his best to change the future.

Starting with a warm cup of tea with a little bit of honey.

 

****

John feels the presence in his room before he opens his eyes, like a breath against the back of his neck. In the dark he makes sure not to allow himself to move, to keep his breathing steady even as his hand inches forward centimetre by centimetre to his Browning underneath his pillow. In the darkness, there is no sound. John has learned from his time in The Desert that it doesn't mean anything. There are creatures that are completely soundless, and still just as deadly. Sitting up abruptly and aiming his gun, he is surprised at what he sees hovering at the foot of his bed. For a moment he just gapes, unsure of what he is seeing.

 

Because standing at the foot of his bed, too pale and too transparent to be alive, is the young man who was part of the serial murders.

Dustin Larkey.

John nearly drops his gun, only the fact it may be some kind of Magic at play keeping it hovering between the two figures. He doesn't dare make a sound, because Sherlock is still awake. He can hear the soft drifting notes of violin, edging along up into the air. Floating as much as the young man is floating now before him, half shadowed in darkness. His eyes stare at him unblinkingly in the night, circled by dark shadows. His skin is powder-white, and his lips a dark and unhealthy purple. His feet do not touch the floor, and as John slowly lowers his weapon, he sees that a corner of dried blood drips from his mouth. The same as the photograph of the body Sherlock had taken to show him earlier. The angel thinks he knows what is going on, and the thought makes his stomach pinch slightly as with a whispered oath he realizes that his gun is probably of no use for this situation.

Dustin would not be harming him or anyone any time soon.

 

John hears his own voice crack as he murmurs

“You poor, poor thing. I'm so sorry.”

 

But the ghost shows no acknowledgement of his apology, head tilting to look vacantly out at the window where the moonlight streamed through him and onto the floor in a silver puddle. Because that is what's before him, John is now certain.

A phantom.

A ghost.

 

****

“What happens when humans die?”

 

John asked his Father during one of his lessons, curious after he had just seen Death enter the gates, leading along the girl that had been a victim of a car accident and her Guardian angel, staring down from their perch atop a marble banister. His white-green wings had fluttered with the soft tropical breeze that day that had drifted through, God feeling like having a bit of a vacation even while teaching, his old man's form reclining easily on a chair. He had waved casually at the woman dressed in flowing white robes, his smile gentle and affectionate. She had responded in kind, amber-gold eyes glittering.

 

“Depends son. In most cases, it will be your job that when your Chosen dies, you convince him to go with Death and he will be judged for either Heaven or Hell. If brought to Heaven, well they live the rest of existence here.”

 

“What about Hell?”

His lavender-blue eyes had narrowed slightly at the question, and his tone became a little sharper.

“John, remember what I said about _those_ kinds of questions?”

 

“....Right.... Sorry.”

 

The Newborn angel sulked a little anyway, wings drooping just a little in hurt at being rebuked. His Father noticed his humiliation though and smiled gently in apology, leaning forward.

“Sometimes an angel cannot convince their human to go with Death, if there is unfinished business to attend to or the human feels an unnatural amount of attachment to something or someone on Earth.”

 

“What happens then?”

John asked, wondering what could drive a human to lingering on Earth, where pain was so bitter and death was inevitable. Where lies ran amok and people cheated and revelled in sin and darkness. He shuddered a little in distaste.

 

God looked at him steadily, knowing his real question underneath the mask of bravado.

_What if I can't convince him? What will happen to my **Chosen**?_

 

“Then the angel is forced to return to Heaven alone, and Death cannot return until the human wishes to leave. They become ghosts or spirits, haunting a place or a person. Stuck in repeated actions or lingering until their unfinished business becomes resolved. They are sad creatures John, no longer human and usually driven to madness because they are unable to move on. Harmless, but sad. You don't have to fear them, but if you should see one, try your best to convince them to move on. It's for the best in the end. Lingering on Earthly pain and memories only brings pain in the end. Plus their angel will be missing them deeply.”

 

He had smiled softly then, reassuring John with the unspoken words.

_You will convince him. Don't worry._

And John had smiled at the little girl with the blood covering one side of her face, and waved her into Heaven. She had grinned a gap-toothed grin, and her angel had smiled up at him.

Then together they had left, gone to the resting place of humans.

And John forgot about ghosts years later, until he found one in his room and three more upon inspection outside on his front step, staring at him with unnerving fixation and accuracy.

All of them with dead, flat eyes and bodies that seemed to be real and not real at once.

 

That was the night that John realized that he may have to get used to seeing ghosts more often, given Sherlock's line of work.

And the ghosts watched him all of that night, boring into him with their eyes, whispering their memories and plaguing him with nightmares. Refusing to leave him be because he can see them, and he knows.

Down below Sherlock plays on, oblivious to the audience that has gathered just outside his window to listen. Dustin Larkey reaches his hand out, once. When John hesitantly reaches out to touch it, he feels only ice cold breath. Yet the ghost's eyes fill with tears that fall down a blank and unseeing face, and drip onto the floor crimson red.

Blood.

Begging him to catch their killer before he struck again.

In the morning, the step is stained red. Marking the rail and steps.

John rubs it away before Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson can see.


	14. The Ghost Of A Halo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo yeah I don't know what happened. I just wrote and this chapter flowed together really nicely and now you lovely people get an early update :D hurray! <3
> 
> song is No light, no light by Florence and the Machine
> 
> warnings for Jim being a creepy sexual bastard....  
> that's all I'm gonna say... you've been warned *flails*

 

 

 

  
_You're my head_   
_You're my heart_

_No light, no light in your bright blue eyes_   
_I never knew daylight could be so violent_   
_A revelation in the light of day_   
_You can't choose what stays and what fades away_

_And I'd do anything to make you stay_   
_No light, no light_   
_No light_   
_Tell me what you want me to say_

_Through the crowd, I was crying out_   
_And in your place there were a thousand other faces_   
_I was disappearing in plain sight_   
_Heaven help me, I need to make it right_

_You want a revelation,_   
_You wanna get it right_   
_But, it's a conversation,_   
_I just can't have tonight_   
_You want a revelation_   
_Some kind of resolution_   
_You want a revelation_

 

 

Sherlock as always, is observant at exactly the wrong times that John wants him to be. The angel has discovered that true to when he was a child, the man before him could wander off for days inside of his Mind-Palace without feeling the need to inform anyone as to when or how he would return. The only real difference is that now, John is no longer on the inside, managing and dealing with the onslaught of his thoughts. Though he can still hear Sherlock more or less clearly, he cannot pick out what he is actually thinking. It is more like an elusive impression, and idea or a ghost of an intent, and as John stumbled tiredly downstairs he could tell that at the moment the general aura of it was _dissatisfied._

He hadn't been able to sleep very well, given the ghosts staring holes into his neck for most of the night. As it was he spent most of his time staring at his _laptop_ (as Harry called it) at his _Blog,_ which John was supposed to write in order to keep his friend updated on all of the things going on in his life when she couldn't come see him. Of course since it was a public thing on the net, he couldn't exactly write _“Wings aching because of rainfall, wish Father would let up on London once in a while.”_ That was why he had a password-protected file hidden under the mundane title of _Shopping list_. He chose the name after he found out that Sherlock abhorred shopping, and yet constantly complained over the fact that they were out of milk.

Something that made him cuss in a very unangelic way at times. He found that the longer amount of time he spent on Earth, the easier it came to be to cuss.

It was a personal way to rant, and it helped into the night when he felt the need to explain exactly why he couldn't just float off into a dream land when the eyes of the dead were watching him like a stuffed turkey fit to eat. He was thankful as dawn came and the spirits faded before his eyes, unable to hold their forms with sunrise. That was the thing about ghosts, unless they had been on Earth for quite some time indeed, they were fairly intangible and fragile things.

 

However he noted as he glanced in the mirror in his bedroom before he went downstairs that his body did not agree with the forced bout of insomnia. Dark circles ringed his eyes like a racoon's, and he felt stiff and a little head-achy and irritable. Perhaps that was why he felt a little nervous and put on the spot when Sherlock without bothering to look up from his folded posture on the couch deduced

“You didn't sleep well.”

 

“Mmm. Yeah.”

Was what he offered in reply, about to go and make himself some kind of tea. Or perhaps coffee, except the last time he tried that it had been foul-tasting and bitter, coating his tongue for hours afterwards. However after he drank it he had been doing barrel-rolls in the sky, completely buzzed and Harry had to drag him back into the bedsit. Except when he went as if to make his way to the kitchen he felt Sherlock's eyes following him, watching him with calculated precision like a fly trapped under a microscope.

 

“Nightmares?”

 

“What?”

John startled, very nearly dropping the coffee canister and spilling grounds all over the front of his sleep shirt. Sherlock, twisting to look at him, sat up and began to walk towards him, not unlike a cat pinpointing its' prey. He arches a dark brow at the trembling of his hands.

 

“Nightmares. You shows signs of not sleeping well, dark circles under your eyes and your limp being more pronounced than usual. As well there is a shaking in your limbs that is making even your search for coffee a struggle. You're not multitasking as I speak because your limbs feel heavy and slow and you need to concentrate more to listen to what I'm saying. As well you've given me curt one-word replies since you've woken up. One could assume you're just not a morning person except for the fact that you've worked in the Army and becoming a morning person is a part of the Training. Coupled with the fact that you were honourably discharged from a wound in Afghanistan as we've already established the best logical choice would be nightmares. Am I wrong?”

 

Even though he was dressed in a crisp suit and polished shoes, every inch of him was suddenly screaming with a certain edge. A kind of wildness that John could feel buzzing in he back of his mind and made his throat dry with what could only be slow panic. He suddenly felt exposed, as if there was not enough air in the room. Those ever-changing eyes seemed to suck it in, like twin black holes that were creeping closer in curiosity. John felt in that moment that Sherlock could see past his skin, past the human flesh, see the glow that surrounded him and the wings that quivered uncertainly behind his back. His eyes, deep blue. Yet in that moment they reflected no light in their depths, instead seeming to absorb all shred of prismatic colour and drowning it.

And then he snaps back to himself, realizing in horror that his feathers are crawling with a slow baby-pink _blush_ , and John grabs a hold of himself. He scowls.

“ _Stop_ it.”

To his surprise, even though he didn't specify what he wanted to stop, Sherlock listens. Blinking almost like he hadn't realized what he was doing, he pulled away and offered an immediate release of tension in taking a small breath that John soon copied in relief.

 

Immediately the angel's instincts felt guilty, demanding that he keep his Chosen happy and close. Or maybe it's not instinct after all, but the strange heat churning inside of his stomach and threatening to make him sick.

 

He ignores the impulse in favour of making more coffee, listening as Sherlock draws back into himself and resumes his mental aerobics. Like Hell was he just going to let the Detective get away with murder and terrorize him.

Little did he know that Sherlock was smirking behind his back, secretly pleased with the spark of fight in his reaction.

 

****

_Pink!_

It all made sense in retrospect, why Sherlock had shouted that at him and D.I Lestrade that first evening. At least, it had clicked for John when later that evening he had been forced to stand face-to-face with a shocking fuchsia-pink suitcase sitting on their living room floor. It had made even _more_ sense when Sherlock had further explained it, even while getting John to text a murderer using his phone (Something that John planned to have words over with him later on because if people occasionally assumed that Sherlock was the murderer than he should probably learn _some_ kind of social skills even though John was crap at them too).

It made sense that Mrs. Hudson had originally thought that John and Sherlock were a couple, as she had no way of knowing that John _had_ no sexual orientation because he _had_ no sex life to begin with, and that she had married ones in the flat next over had probably made her sensitive to the subject. (In retrospect though, simply blurting out that _of course they'd need two beds_ was probably not the smoothest thing he could have said).

 

It made sense that he took an instant disliking to Sally Donovan and her angel Ridley, as both had the audacity to look at him pityingly even while calling _his_ Chosen a _Freak._ In fact it infuriated him, particularly because Ridley's wings were laced with the deep scarlet of someone having an affair with someone else. He personally felt that if a human was going to treat love so trivially, they didn't deserve to speak ill of others. He had to admit he had been less than cordial to them ever since their first meeting in which she had tried to warn him away from Sherlock. Especially since he was still a little raw at the time about all he had been through just to be granted the chance to meet him face-to-face. Incidentally, he found that Crow had some tell-tale marks on his wings of an affair as well, but they were different from Sally's. For one they weren't the fleeting crimson of a one-time fling, they were actually a very pale blue. As well there was more blue than silver, despite the fact that the silver was the colour of Lestrade's actual wife. Whatever that meant John didn't know, but he did know that he owed the D.I and the strange, bare angel that hadn't given him the time of day since he had gotten back. So he had kept quiet and resisted the urge to ask.

 

 

Yes, all of this had made sense in the angel's mind more or less. So far none of the complicated, sticky emotions he had been warned about had clouded people beyond his capabilities of understanding. Even Lestrade, because he hadn't looked to deeply into it.

 

 

 

However what _didn't_ make sense was the fact that as they sat down to dinner at Angelo's, _Sherlock_ himself of all people looked at him rather uncomfortably and stated that he was _married to his work._

John had only been trying to work out something that had been bothering him since he had met Sherlock again. What exactly had happened to Victor. Or at least to find out if Sherlock was interested in anyone else, or had been since he had been gone. He felt like as his angel, he should be aware of these things.

Of course since he couldn't ask directly, he had attempted to seem nonchalant. He settled for a topic he could broach, a safer one that no doubt would lead to a discussion of complicated relationships.

Mycroft.

 

“People don't have arch-enemies.”

 

Sherlock seemed to be distracted, and John hadn't flattered himself to think that this dinner wasn't just because he had noticed that the angel was feeling a little hungry by the time evening rolled around. Though he couldn't tell exactly what Sherlock was looking for, he could taste the uneasiness, and when he had found out he suspected the murderer would show up at Twenty-two Northumberland street, he had followed without hesitation. After all, he wasn't about to let Sherlock just chase after anything potentially dangerous without him.

It was his job to protect him.

 

When he finally did acknowledge his words, it was with a distracted

“I'm sorry?”

 

“In real life. There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen.” At least, he was fairly certain it didn't. Humans were strange things sometimes. They created monsters that didn't actually exist and yet were blind to the Demons that lurked in the shadows. Purposefully blind except for the things that could be proven by the science they had on hand.

 

“Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull....”

 

Sherlock said softly, eyelashes flickering over his irises as he blinked, staring out the window as if waiting patiently for a lover to arrive. To an average person, it would look like he was merely expecting an old friend, or perhaps simply a date. Well maybe not so simply. Sherlock never dated anyone who was just simple. John gave his Chosen that much. It was sometimes like his Chosen lived on a different plane than other people, that he was floating on an island of older times where there were still dragons to fight and crime scenes that had to be solved with hangings and witch hunts. As if a part of Sherlock was still very much a little child, though John supposed that might have been his fault. When he had been around he had encouraged whatever naivete he was gifted with. If only because the other side of Sherlock was sharp and too wise to the horrors of this world. He was hard and cold and sometimes just a little bit cruel, as if he was afraid of melting the thick layer of ice that held him apart from the rest of humanity. That side was also devastatingly clever, but would unexpectedly brighten and melt back into the child again for a moment with a well-placed

“Brilliant.”

Murmured in the heat of the moment.

Yes, John felt like there was a certain level of Jekyll and Hyde about Sherlock Holmes, and even though he was part of him, he wasn't certain which personality was the real one. Nor did he always know which one would come out to play in response to his words. Though John felt sometimes around him, the personalities blurred together just a bit. His blue-green eyes as they stared out the window could almost be described as haunting.

Horrors that glittered behind his eyes and made John wonder just what had happened to his Chosen, what he had to pay for in exchange for his time of absence. What he had to make up for.

Even though he knew who Mycroft was, he asked anyway. If only because that's what a normal person would do.

 

“So who did I meet?”

He didn't answer, predictably. Instead he asked a question of his own. Sharp and defensive. An attempt to get him angry. Riled. John didn't take the bait.

 

“What _do_ people have then, in their.... _real_ lives?”

 

The angel looked around at the other people at the tables about them, eating and chatting in a friendly way with one another. Their angels fluttered in the background, their wings all easy shades of relaxed blues and golds. Rippling and shifting with the tide of conversation. John didn't know much behind the sentiment of connections. How could he? He had been alone for most of his life. All angels were. He didn't even really know what friendship was, outside of Harry's occasional visits and his Father frustrating personal brand of affection. His answer was what he just observed, looking about at the world that seemed to turn about their table. Their two presences fixed points in time that were frozen from moving forward.

It felt fake and mimicked, rehearsed across his lips.

“Friends. People they know, people they like. People they don't like..... Girlfriends, Boyfriends....?”

 

“Yes well as I was saying: _Dull_.”

 

“...You don't have a girlfriend then?”

 

John didn't think so, given the fact that Sherlock tended not to get along with women even as a kid. Not out of sexism, but because of the simple fact that women by nature were empathetic, emotional creatures, and Sherlock despised anything messy as feelings.

 

“Girlfriend? No.....Not really my area....”

“Mm.”

Well then. Onto the real heart of the matter then. John unthinkingly dived straight in, given the relatively stable buzzing of emotion he could feel that indicated that Sherlock was relatively indifferent to his questioning.

“Boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way.”

 

John added the last bit, mostly out of habit. God had long since repealed his views on homosexuality and had no qualms with it as soon as his humans had no qualms with it, but sometimes people on Earth were slow to get the message.

He is surprised by sudden and painful wave of sadness that washes over him, startling agony star-bursting along his chest. John has to clench his teeth to keep from gasping, and he knows that for a moment his wings pulsated with an echo of a memory. A sparkle of rainbow incandescence. Then a violent red rage followed by ashen acceptance.

Sherlock looks at him, eyes piercing. His irises are a blazing azure blue. Though John hasn't reacted at all to the riot of emotions spanning in his head, he thinks perhaps he must have shown some sort of glimmer of sympathy, because the Detective's deep baritone snapped as it spoke.

 

“I _know_ it's fine.”

Silence.

 

“So you've got a boyfriend then?”

The same pain, but muted now.

Softer.

An animal licking its' wounds with a gentle tongue.

 

“...No.”

 

And John has realized his words have _hurt_ Sherlock somehow, and he immediately is at a loss at how to apologize. How could one say sorry if the things they heard and felt were not things that a human would apologize for? How does one beg forgiveness for accidentally touching on thoughts that they aren't supposed to know exist? For intruding in a place that the other person wasn't even aware was shared?

He settled for the stereotypical British man answer, feeling the stiffness of words left unsaid. The silence in between holds thoughts that neither want to express, and neither wants to say.

 

“Right...Okay.....”

 

John feels a slow, creeping warmth crawl up his cheeks and the back of his neck, and he realizes after a moment that he is blushing from embarrassment. He resists the urge to curse his human body, staring down at his hands that toy with the cutlery. Though he's tried, he can't clamp down on it totally, and his ears turn a little pink despite his best efforts. John knows it and the thought makes him want to blush harder.

He immediately wishes he could take the words back, to make things right again. However his heart is pounding in his head like a separate drum, and his words seemed to have decided to take a life of their own as they leave his lips unintentionally. He wants to explain, to say he knows how it feels to long for something. To miss someone. To want to linger in memories where you know you don't belong and you know cannot be changed. He wants to tell Sherlock how it felt in _**Scheol**_ , the times when he forgot even his own name and yet clung to his Chosen's like a man searching for water desperately to soothe him. He wanted to tell him that he knew how it felt to feel like your life was not your own.

That you belonged, were _owned_ by people you wanted to trust but in the dark hours of night wondered about. When you would do anything, _anything_ just to see someone one more time. To ensure their safety.

When you would hide their cigarettes even though they only just met you.

Share a flat with them.

Or be the skull they talk to, when they're bored or rattling off ideas.

Just so that their voice would be directed towards your presence.

Even kill.

Even when you know you shouldn't.

Or die.

Even when you know you can't.

Instead what comes out is an awkward come upon, or at least that's what it sounds like to even his own ears. He doesn't blame Sherlock for mistaking it for that.

“You're unattached. Like....like me....”

 

_Wrong. Idiot. Don't say that! It's not going to help anything!_

And that was when Sherlock uncomfortably brought their conversation to a close, mistaking his attempt at an apology for flirtation. Like he just couldn't have this kind of conversation right now with a total stranger. Shutting him out and cutting him off even mentally.

John felt like a right berk as he sadly tucked into his meal. One thing was for sure, he would correct people on their assumptions if it meant never bringing that expression to Sherlock's face ever again.

 

****

The pale hand clacked over the keyboard in the darkness of the hotel room, skimming over the enter and space key systematically as the person clucked softly over the title of the website he came across.

_The Science Of Deduction._

Such a creative little title. The man grinned a sharp smile slightly at it, one half of his face highlighted by the low glow of the computer screen. Though his suit was an expensive Westwood, he sat sprawled cross-legged on the king-sized bed with careless abandon, tie askew as he lay on his stomach. He looked not unlike a child, wrapped up in the covers and comforter in a cocoon-style that tented at his head so he could peek out at the screen. Looking at him, one might not notice right away the darkness of his eyes, much too large and occasionally blinking away the whites of them into pure obsidian before reverting back to a more human shape and colouring. One might not see how his teeth were just a little _too_ sharply pointed, and how his skin just a little _too_ pale.

 

Jim was still trying to shape his body, its' idea already formed but not quite solid. It was only natural, after all he hadn't taken all of the capsules just yet. The bottle still lay partly full on the night-stand, the little pills glinting black-red like the stain of dried gore. He still had about five days left until he could pass convincingly in public. Not that he didn't enjoy scaring the occasional passer-by in the darkness of night. Yes, especially the drunks at the wee hours of the morning. They always made such interesting little noises when they screamed and bolted. Their angels cowered, and Jim often longed to tear, to rip their wings from their backs. To taste their blood and drink, but even _he_ unfortunately had certain laws he must abide to.....

 

For now at least.

 

It looked like his little pet had finally grown all up. Sherlock Holmes. That wonderfully _clever_ little child that had so much _potential._ So much delicious chaos, all trapped in his head. Jim pictures what it would be like to crack that skull open, to feel rich, warm blood trickle onto his hands again. Oh how he longs for it. Longs for anything other than the hateful monotony that drones onwards outside. Humans, stupid and so utterly _boring_ when allowed to settle. The entire city, no the _world_ was stale with complacency. It was utterly _dull._

How would they react if _everyone_ was suddenly and delightfully overcome by _violence,_ given over to their base natures. The cruel instincts that screamed to kill, to taste, to _burn._

His tongue darted out hungrily to lick his upper lip, eyes roving over the websites contents once more. Yes. Here was someone who could Fall so spectacularly. Possibly drag others with him, if he could get Mr. Noble _Johnny_ to play to his Game. Get him dancing to _his_ violin as opposed to Daddy's. With his Protector on his side, then Jim could do so very many _things_ to Sherlock. All the while tightening his grip on his little _Guardian's_ throat.

Perfect.

It was so, so _perfect._ He could just _bite_ something, he was so excited for it to all begin.

His first little test would be solved tonight, he was sure of it.

The challenge to just greet them with a sweet little _hello._

 

His thoughts are interrupted by a slight shuffling, a scuffling noise that scrapes along the floorboards and drags. Thoughts of biting brought again to the forefront of his mind for an entirely other reason, he turns his head towards the kitchen, voice a soft rumbling purr. In his stomach he feels the familiar stirrings of hunger.

 

“Sebastian dear? Come here my love....No need to be so shy....”

More scuffling.

Then the tanned, bare figure of the man steps forward, shuffles slowly into view out of the shadow of the kitchen archway. He moves with the familiar tones of a sleepwalker, but that is normal. The man is tall, taller than Jim, and his hair glints a soft and shimmering gold. Jim tuts at his bare figure, eyes sweeping over the dozens of bite marks, little half-circles of teeth lingering in faint white scars and bright fleshy new ones, overlapping his wrists, his chest, his arms, his neck. Almost every inch of him. They glitter, as do the man's eyes. They are dark things, blank of all emotion. Hollow and heavy as twin stones. They gaze at Jim, but do not see him. Moriarty however doesn't seem to care. He stands, moving towards the still human-like creature before him. Tongue swiping again over his lips, a pale hand reaches out to trace the faint scar on the man's face. Presses against it, almost like he wishes he could reopen the wound again, except that it is too old for that. Sebastian doesn't react. He doesn't even blink. Like a limp doll, he follows Jim's grip on his upper arm, pulling him roughly towards the bed. The mattress creaks at their combined weight, nearly threatening to topple the laptop onto the floor. Jim doesn't appear to notice.

 

“ _Mine._ ”

The man growls as he pins the body to the bed, tasting the warmth of life as he breathes against the crook of Sebastian's throat. Tasting his carotid artery with a rough swipe of his tongue. He can feel the heat radiating beneath him, all for him totally as he presses a bruising kiss to the man's mouth, tongue forcing open his lips to delve into the wet warmth inside. He kisses him for just a moment, hands roving down the cut planes of his chest before parting to huskily murmur an order into the shell of Sebastian's ear.

 

“Undress me.”

Hands obediently come to life, unbuttoning layers of the man's suit and peeling them away. As they do this Jim continues to suckle along the strong line of Sebastian's jaw, sighing in freedom as the last button of his dress-shirt comes undone. He whips the clothes away, shifting so Sebastian can work the buckle of his pants. His skin in the dim light along his spine is nearly translucent, veins visibly trailing up along his spine. Pumping blood that is sluggish and charcoal black. His spine is prominent, unnaturally sharp. As Sebastian helps him throw away his trousers, the proof of Jim's arousal is plain to see. He chuckles, low and dark and sinful, looking down at himself before gazing at the contrasting hues of his own skin against the man beneath him. Snow and honey. Parchment and sand. His own hand drops down lazily to touch himself, rocking slightly as he straddled Sebastian's hips. Rutting against him.

 

“Looks like this body knows what it wants.”

His hands then find Sebastian's, feeling its' hardness and heat. Calling to him like the song of a Siren.

“As does yours. Even now. Even when you're like this.....”

 

For a moment Jim's eyes darken just slightly, looking into the blank, expressionless and empty face underneath him. For just one second, if one were to look into those dark and bottomless eyes, one might see the Devil looking almost regretfully at the mark across Sebastian's face, at the scars littering his body. Yet one would have to look quickly, because the next second his face spasmed into something dark and vicious. Gripping Sebastian's shoulders, he jerked the man upwards until his mouth what at his throat, lips parting to reveal teeth gone sharp with blood-lust.

“This is all _his_ fault.”

 

He snarled, his voice suddenly monstrous and animalistic as he sank his teeth down into Sebastian's collarbone. The reaction is instantaneous. Jim's hand has covered the man's mouth beforehand, but he cannot muffle or hide the widening of eyes. The briefest flash of sentience before it is marred by agony. Blood, hot and rich and delicious washes down Jim's throat, tasting of gunmetal and life and metallic mortality. He drinks deeply, covering Sebastian's howls of agony and pinning him against the mattress to stop his weak struggles. Because this is the only way Jim can make Sebastian feel any more, the only emotion he can have.

Pain.

With it for just an instant, Jim can see a flicker of the soul that had long since died behind those dark grey eyes. And he misses him.

Revels in him.

Wants him.

Even while he does this he thrusts forward, riding the tide of his building climax. Letting it wash over him as Sebastian comes too, both of them for just a moment moaning in release laced with crimson adrenaline and blood.

 

Jim only releases his bite when the struggles become weaker. When he is sated and the hunger is just a simmering flame, cooling in his gut.

When Sebastian's eyes dim and his cries become little whimpers of distress against his palm. Then Jim unlocks his teeth, murmuring soothing words, licking at the wound so it seals itself over and leaves a brand new scar as an echo of his claim. A memory of the pain that he has caused. Hands that once restrain him now gather Sebastian into an embrace, spooning the man's figure against him and shielding him as if from view. Jim is surprisingly gentle as he cradles the man's trembling figure against him, shushing his shuddering sobs as his hands grab the blanket and wrap it about their shivering forms. Tenting them away from light. Protecting them from the world.

 

“There, there I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _Shh_ Seb. I didn't mean to bite so deep. I'm sorry....Hush now..... We've made a mess of the sheets....”

Like he is whispering _I love you_ against the man's ear Jim kisses the crown of his temple, burrowing his nose in the dip between the man's spine and inhaling his scent. Blood and sweat, heat and breath. Heartbeat and lust. Sebastian's own heart is silent, unbeating under Jim's fingers as he strokes his bare chest. Jim had stolen it long ago, yet onwards he still breathed. Still lived. For now anyway. Soon the emptiness would come back, but right then, right at that moment, Jim had succeeded if only for a moment on returning him. Claiming him from God, from Heaven, from everyone.

 

He had long since caring about the price for it. There was no light in the Magic it took, only beautiful darkness. Jim's voice is low and clear in the darkness of the hotel room, pressed against Sebastian's ear.

 

“I've got you. I will protect you always. Your are _mine_. My Chosen. Look at me Seb. Only me.”

And the man that once long ago had been human turned slightly to look at his Guardian angel's face, and saw what no one else could see.

The dark black wings that stretched out from Jim Moriarty's back and encircled them both, blocking out even the sunset streaming in through the window. Muting even the suggestion of a dawn. Then his eyes slid closed, and Sebastian Moran fell into his equivalent of a deep sleep.

Unconsciousness.

 

****

“ _SHERLOCK!”_

 

_**BANG.** _

A violent sound.

Shockingly, startlingly violent.

Like a startled colt, Sherlock dropped the pill he had just been about to let pass his lips. Dropped it like it scalded him like hot water.

 

John in that moment had never been happier he could occasionally compel his Chosen.

As his hands trembled about the handle of his gun, already running away, he thanks his Father explicitly for the fact that Sherlock could never lie to him. He had seen through the words immediately at the flat. Read the intention in their tone. The measured and controlled tension that came with any lie. He had followed after him almost immediately. Night time truly made it easier to fly overhead undetected. Even then though John hadn't been frightened, not really. Not until something _Struck_ him in mid-air, like an invisible wall. Something that made his head real and his body sick for just a moment. It had been enough for him to become disoriented, so much so that he had accidentally chosen the wrong building. When he had seen what Sherlock was doing, what he was _about_ to do-

Well the gun was smoking in his hands before he even realized he had fired it, its' name blazing new and golden on it's muzzle,warm with its' first use.

_Amor._

To love.

John tried not to ask himself the irony of such a weapon being branded with that title. Or what it said about him.

 

And more than anything, he wondered why he didn't feel more guilty over the fact that he just killed a man.

Or why his jaw tighten when the same man's Guardian angel came to him minutes after and _thanked_ him for stopping his Chosen from going any further.

 

And he knew somehow with utter certainty by the light of the stars as they glittered coldly in the dark, that there would be no ghosts visiting him tonight.

 

****

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock found himself asking. He's not sure what makes him say it, perhaps he truly is in shock.

But John looks so startled at the question and slightly _pleased_ at being asked despite the confusion flickering across his face. Only someone like _him_ could have so many emotions splayed so visibly in his features, the Detective thought. He was quickly building an entire catalogue for the many expressions of John Watson, something that told him that maybe the man wasn't as much of a stranger as he would like to pretend.

After all, this changed things.

John had just saved his _life._

 

“Of course I'm all right.”

A soldier's answer, possibly truthful, but Sherlock recalled their conversation earlier about nightmares. He suddenly wanted to make sure, to be absolutely _positive_ that John's sleep patterns would not be affected because of something he did for him. He stared at him harder, not cutting like he had been that morning but probing. Probably as gentle as he could get with the bubbling burn to _know_ for sure edging him on.

 

“You did just kill a man....”

 

“Yes....”

John murmured, surprised at Sherlock's sudden concern. He looked at him curiously, one blonde brow arched as he tried to discern where this sudden bout of care came from. He couldn't be sure, but he tasted guilt nagging at it like sourness against sweet, the sugar added when combined with a kind of tentative affection.

_Friendship._

John realized as he tasted it on his tongue, and his smile beamed just slightly wider despite the grimness of the situation.

“Yes I guess that's true isn't it?”

 

Sherlock continued to look at him with just a hint of anxiousness, so John hastily started to joke just a little.

 

“But he wasn't a very nice man.”

 

Sherlock grinned just slightly, a crooked thing that looked like it wasn't used very often but was real. It made John's heart beat just a little bit faster, looking at it. The Detective quietly lived his relief inside his own head as he fell into step with the smaller man beside him, silently relieved that John in all probability would sleep well tonight.

 

“No. No he wasn't really was he?”

 

“And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.”

This time they both snickered, and the sound was mingled and warm. They both struggled to keep a straight face for just a moment longer as they passed Sergeant Donovan (and Ridley) before Sherlock felt like he _needed_ to hear that laugh again. Needed it like a hole in his head really, but he was already addicted.

John's laugh had hooked him in from the beginning.

A most deceptive drug.

 

“That's true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!”

And the two burst into a fresh bout of giggles, unable to contain themselves as John's blue eyes reflected the starlight overhead and his blonde hair turned to silver. And the Detective for just a moment, thought he caught a glimpse of something round and bright circling the man's head. Almost like a halo.

But when he blinked it was gone.

Neither of them saw the man with glowing gold eyes in a white suit in the shadow of the alley, standing next to the ghosts of the victims and smiling in silence.

Death stared at the two, angel and human for a moment longer. Remembering the brief time before the Wars of the past, when angel and man stood side by side. The thought made them sigh just a little softly, for the days of the past. One hand slipped to the front of their waistcoat then, clicking open the silver stopwatch. Inside, an emerald-green hand ticked away, nearing its' full-circle back to twelve with every beating breath. Then they blinked and closed the watch, shaking their head almost in regret.

They tipped their top-hat to the retreating figures in elegant respect, taking their charges with them as they turned and dissolved like snow into the night. With their retreat was the softest hum of mercy, and the sound of lives caught and chained by violence of Earth finding rest at long last.


	15. Memories Locked Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy! :3
> 
> first off, song is better than me by Hinder.  
> Hope you enjoy! because the next chapter will probably be fairly complex. This one is actually a sort of segue. kind of..... 
> 
> kudos and comments always welcome <3

 

 

  
_While looking through your old box of notes_   
_I found those pictures I took_   
_That you were looking for_

  
_I told myself I won't miss you_   
_But I remember_   
_What it feels like beside you_   
_I really miss your hair in my face_   
_And the way your innocence tastes_   
_And I think you should know this_   
_You deserve much better than me_

_I told myself I won't miss you  
But I remember...._

 

 

“Sherlock! Where in the living _Hell_ is all of our food?”

 

John sighs as he stands morosely in front of the starkly empty refrigerator, not sure whether to be utterly horrified at the stark white-polished walls or mildly impressed that everything from a full-sized chicken to his favourite (Because yes, he did have favourites even if he didn't need to eat)

brand of strawberry jam. As it was he stood there, rocking slightly on his heels as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted to recoil from the scene of the crime or to lean closer, wondering to himself what exactly _fascinated_ Sherlock so much about the decay and desecration of perfectly good _food._ It seems like it's only been a few days since he last went shopping, and it had been a nightmare he hadn't wanted to relive any time soon. He found himself flustered still when he was forced to talk to strangers, mostly because Humans tended to have an instinctive urge to be friendly to angels even when they are not aware of their true forms. As it was he wound up locked in a rather complex conversation with the pretty cashier at the store for nearly twenty minutes, her bubblegum-scented breath breathing softly onto his face as she rattled on about modern topics he struggled to follow even as he silently wished for someone to come rescue him from his fate before he wound up accidentally letting something slip. It was so _hard_ sometimes, understanding what Humans could feel and not feel, what they related to and what they didn't. John didn't really understand hunger for instance, but he knew Sherlock got hungry (more often than he liked to admit) by the strange echo of a hollow ache he felt pang in his stomach if the Detective went on for too long without eating. He didn't experience pain to the same degree as most Humans, so he hadn't realized that his hand had blistered and burned when he placed it by accident on the hot stove until it was a red, festering thing (which he quickly healed with Magic to avoid Sherlock's suspicion).

 

And things had been going so _well_ since The Study In Pink (what he had decided to name the case on his Human 'blog', much to his Chosen's ire and chagrin). In fact Sherlock had warmed to him considerably since John had saved his life, and a part of the angel thought somewhat selfishly that he should have just done it in a visible way sooner. It would have saved him a whole lot of endless worrying and pacing late at night. However there was a new edge that had begun to build inside him, something tense and low and humming. He can't put a name to it, but it's existed inside of him for a very long time. However lately it's been building.

Becoming pressurized.

Like a bottle of soda shaken with its' top still on.

He can feel the pressure beginning to pull at him. Licking at something inside of his chest and making him uncomfortably tense and walking on a live wire. Which is almost as strange as the fact that he had come to realize that something had tried to _stop_ him that night from protecting Sherlock. He had nearly been in bed, his teeth brushed and his hands still smelling faintly of the salt and oil from the Chinese food they'd had for dinner when he had realized, sitting bolt upright in bed and trembling in dawning horror. The effect was almost instantaneous as for one moment, John considered what could have happened if he _hadn't_ had his weapon on him at the time. He had curled up with his knees to his chest, heart pounding shockingly _loud_ in his ears as for just an instant he fought off a wave of sickening nausea so dark it almost overtook him. With it came a cold sweat, something that was as distressing as it was clammy. He had almost called his Father then and there, thinking to sneak away in the night before Sherlock could miss him.

However the Detective had, after several nights without sleep, predictably become comatose as soon as they had gotten home and John with his already stressed nerves couldn't bring himself to leave. After all, what if the attacker came back and this time made sure that John couldn't get there in time?

And then there was what the cabbie had said to Sherlock, the name of a 'fan'.

_Moriarty._

He shivers just a little, not liking the way the name seemed to stick in his brain and repeat itself in a sacrilegious whisper, itching with danger and a promise of dark adventure. Something Sherlock was sure to follow like a fly to honey. John isn't sure what in the Hell a _Moriarty_ was, but he isn't about to underestimate it, even if it only turned out to be a Human that had gotten to big for its' britches. After all, this 'fan' had managed to _hire_ a _serial killer_ just for a lark.

 

So he had stayed on alert for one more night, despite when sleep flagged at him, willed him into sleep. He lay there wide awake, listening to the traffic of central London outside, so loud and yet so willing to lull him into dreams if he was not careful. Of course, he probably should have known better than to believe that whoever, or _whatever_ was apparently targeting Sherlock would try to hurt him in his own home. There was powerful Magic in a Human's home base, more than people realized, and with an _AOD_ living with them that Magic became almost a barrier to Magical beings. Still, he kept his gun _Amor_ under his pillow and didn't breathe easily in the dark of his room until dawn came and licked the sides of his bedroom walls with shades of sweet pink and indigo violet.

 

Predictably, Sherlock's voice drawls unrepentant and unmoved from his chair in the living room, and John can sense the quiet buzzing in his brain that signalled he was reading. Sure enough as he stepped past the kitchen, the angel found himself facing those pale, elegant hands cupping a book upwards in front of Sherlock's face. When John squints to look at the title, he sighs.

Another Crime novel. Honestly he had to start looking for some variety or he might be driven insane. He doesn't think he can take one more reading night trying to go through the _Miss Marple_ series when there are thousand of pencilled in notes explaining how the mysteries don't make sense or how 'obvious' the killer is.

 

“Needed the space. Planning on having Molly send me a Human head at some point today....Plus the lettuce was useful for a mould experiment.....”

 

John bites his lip to keep from retorting with where _exactly_ he could go stick his mould experiments. His blue eyes flash darkly as he looks about the room, once again noticing with a sinking heart that the mess he had just cleaned only a few nights ago was beginning to creep in again, seeming to grow from nowhere as Sherlock dropped things on the floor and promptly ignored them, or tacked things to the wall and then got distracted and left them hanging. As an angel it hadn't bothered him, he was _transparent_ and so mess didn't affect him. He could walk through it if he had to. Now however he found himself _constantly_ tripping over things, forgetting how easily his body _bruised_ as his knees frequently found contact with hard furniture and miscellaneous crap lying around. Sherlock appeared not to notice his obvious annoyance, and John lets out a huff of air as he realized that maybe some things just weren't worth arguing. Voice tight, he crossed his arms over his chest as he spun on his heel.

 

“I'm going out to get more groceries then. Try not to blow anything up while I'm gone yeah?”

 

Sherlock doesn't indicate he even heard, his mind already lost in the nagging curiosity of dealing with his current case (something to do with a jewel thief, Sherlock only put it as a five on his scale of interesting but he was insufferable when bored so John had encouraged him to take it). John left feeling more than just a little bit tetchy, and possibly just a little bit hurt that he was ignored so utterly. Distracted as he was he didn't realize that he grabbed the wrong credit card from the stack of various pieces of plastic Harry had gotten him, shoving it into his pocket and stalking off.

He didn't need the cane any more, thanks to Sherlock, but he still felt like he was limping off from some sort of battle as he closed the door shut behind him.

****

She holds the tea pot up for the crowd to see, the tea still glistening warm against the clay surface and dripping past her fingers as she smiled slightly. Before her, several of them stand in front of her, taking photographs and murmuring to one another in interest and curiosity. All of them so close, their eyes too dim and their minds to dull to register the danger they put themselves in. Adults, children, all staring at her as she dips the clay lid into place, spilling the still-warm tea down and over the nut-brown surface of the pot. It glitters in her eyes, sparkles as it trails past her fingers, its' warmth like blood. She can hear their heartbeats, drumming softly in the deepest shell of her ears. Wet.

Warm.

Vital things.

It is distracting as it is delicious. As hateful as it is desirable. Outwardly, she appears to have a mere blank expression, but inside her inner self writhes and licks its' lips.

 

“For some pots, the clay has been burnished by tea made over four hundred years ago.”

 

They are all so bright before her, so soft and plush in both skin and bone, fragile. They gaze at her, an utter stranger with fascination and trust. At the front of the crowd, there is a small child. She clutches the velveteen rabbit that she has probably owned all of her short life to her chin and watches with riveted, dark brown eyes. A crooked baby tooth snags on a lower lip that she bites in fascination, blonde curls hanging wispily about her round cheeks and held from her eyes by a baby-blue ribbon. Her angel is where all the others are, curled protectively about her shoulders and gazing at her with a mixture of mistrust and fear locked on their features. She smiles at the creature, imagining how it would feel to sink her claws into those soft, fluffy white wings. Just barely tinged with a playful orange, the little girl hardly old enough to be marked by her personality.

It would be so easy.

So easy to break those bones, reach into her chest and eat her soul, strip the angel of all life and reason, watch them disintegrate into dust as she feasted on its' beating core. Such a small ribcage, it could barely contain it. She stares and sees the pulsating threads of the Bond there, circling protectively about the Human's heart. To tear those threads to pieces, to drink the sweet nectar of them. It would happen all so fast, that no one would even have time to scream. She could kill _all_ of them if she chose before security even arrived. Drink from each.

For a moment, she can see it.

The crimson tainting the pale white walls of the museum.

 

Then Soo Lin realizes where her thoughts have gone and blinks, calling the ceremony to an abrupt end by pouring herself a steaming cup. When she brings it to her lips, the liquid doesn't taste like blood. It is a poor substitute, its' flavour sharp and earthy, herbal. Yet it is better than the alternative, because when she closes her eyes she sees what could've been. A bloodied hair ribbon, a pale face turned paler against the contrast of crimson paint spattering it. An angel falling apart before her, dying and turning into golden sand upon the floor.

And she hates herself.

Hates what she is.

Hates that her throat catches as the girl moves away with the rest of the crowd, demanding that she call out, lure her back. She clenches her fists tightly, refusing her base instincts. She has lived for far too long for her to mess up her disguise now. She can resist the bloodlust, she knows she can.

 

It's just going to be time soon. The time when she will be forced to feed, as all of her kind must. Like _**Vampyres**_ and yet not. After all, they were only cousins of each other. Fallen angels and Fallen Humans were really not so different after all in that respect. Always searching for the life they had lost. Always craving that hit to make their past for a moment thrum in their veins, to bring their hearts back to life for just a brief second of wonderous vitality.

 

She is so distracted, it's no wonder when he surprises her.

The one that's been mooning after her, not unlike a stray puppy. He reminds her of one really, what with his mop of cinnamon-red curls and dark brown eyes. A little plain, but nice looking. Pleasant smile, and a pointed nose. Has a horrible habit of ignoring his instincts, or rather his angel, who have tried to warn him away desperately.

Rail-thin.

She wishes she didn't feel the twist of hunger when her nostrils flare and she takes in his scent. Primal and raw.

Sweat and cologne, something spicy and cloying. It adds to his natural flavour of coffee and chocolate, lacing it into something downright _desirable._ She grips the tea pot in her hands tighter, refusing to turn around. If she turns then she'll kill him.

She knows it.

She'll rip his soul out, to Hell with the consequences.

 

“Four hundred years old, and they're lettin' you use it to make a brew!”

 

She doesn't say what she wants to, that these tea-pots have actually belonged to her for ages, before she handed them to the museum where they could be properly cared for. Her Mother had made them for her, so many hundreds of years ago. Her voice is tight, courteous but short. Trying to warn him away subtly. She almost doesn't realize that she is quoting her long-lost parental figure, the memory of watching her even as she heated the hearth and made the clay molten so she could better mould it. The words are to her lips before she can stop them.

 

“Some things aren't meant to sit behind glass. They're made to be touched, to be handled.”

 

Then she turns and looks at him, willing him to understand what she is not saying. What she is silently begging of him. To leave. He stares back, ensnared by her gaze. Dark and wide, like a starless night. Glimmering gently. She turns back to the box of supplies, silently frustrated at the stupidity of Humans. Angry at the mutinous surge of hunger that hums in her limbs.

 

“These pots _need_ attention.”

She murmurs, half to herself and half to him. She inspects one carefully, noting the minute cracks and chips that not many would be able to see. Picking them out carefully, she traces her fingers along their hairline fractures. Each one something she wished she could fix instead of just treat. But she hasn't created anything in a very long time.

Only destroyed, as is her nature ultimately.

Under the layer of Human that she has cloaked herself with. The ghost of the Soo Lin that had died over four hundred years ago.

 

“Well, I can't see how a tiny splash of tea's gonna help.”

“Sometimes you have to look hard at things to see it's value.”

 

Like Humans. So many drifted about their dull little lives, getting mediocre jobs at mediocre places, never once stopping to think about the power inside each breath they drew. They had white-bread families in white-bread towns, popping out more little Humans that were equally unappreciative of the little glowing lights inside their chests and the angels that watched over them. They complained about how boring life was, how inconsequential their existence could be. They neglected it, let it sputter on in their chests, never stopping to polish it. To care for it when it dwindled and sickened. They poisoned it with cheap wine and cigarettes, whiskey and fattening food. They abused it, bruising it in the mirror as they looked on and saw only their flaws instead of their perfections. It was maddening, when she only wished to take each of them, absorb that light. Curl into its' flavour and encourage it to live inside of her.

Drain them.

She can never get them to live for long. They always sputter in the end inside of her chest, and each time she feels the same wave of helplessness. Of betrayal.

 

Before he can speak again she lifts another pot up to show him.

 

“See? This one shines a little brighter.”

 

She can see the way he braces himself, and she knows what he is going to say before he speaks. Inwardly, she sighs.

“I don’t suppose ... um, I mean, I don’t suppose that you ... you wanna have a drink?”

Then he grimaces at her look.

 

“Not _tea_ obviously... um. In a pub. With me. Tonight..... umm...”

He stutters, flushing so that all that delicious blood burns in his cheeks and she can hear his heartbeat elevate. For just a second she cannot breathe, because that scent picks up in strength. Pulling her, drawing her in. She only realizes her hands are shaking when she sets down the tea-pot against the table. Her voice is firm, even though inside she I straining. Fighting against everything inside of her that screams to grab him, to tilt his neck back and drink. Out of the corner of her eye, his angel shudders and cowers, covering his ears and whimpering slightly even as he places himself between them.

A futile gesture of protection, and he shakes as he does it. So transparent.

So afraid.

She is after all, one of the few things that can kill one of his kind. She sold her soul for the ability.

 

“You wouldn't like me all that much.”

And her eyes close, the truth ringing in her ears. Because she doesn't hate Andy, the man behind her. She can't hate him, not when every instinct tells her to get close to him. If only to kill him later on. She wishes she _could_ sometimes. Hate them all.

But no.

And he opens his mouth, saying something so damn _naïve_ and strangely sweet, and she grits her teeth and stares down at her hands, blinking away the blackness that swallows the white of her pupils before he can see.

“Couldn't I maybe decide that for myself?”

For a moment she hesitates.

Thinks about it.

Her resolve crumbles for just an instant, and her tongue darts out to swipe across her lips as she feels her entire body hum with poised energy, coiled like a spring to pounce.

Like a caged tiger.

 

Then she looks again at his angel, now sobbing even as she held his position in front of his Chosen, and sees her reflection in those eyes.

Sees the leathery, bat-like wings arching behind her back, dark crimson and quivering. Sees her tail, sharply pointed and reptilian thrashing uneasily. Sees her teeth, pointed and glittering in the shadow of the wall. Her jaw tightens, and she closes the tea set before her tightly.

The click is a tone of finality.

“I'm sorry. I can't. _Please_ stop asking.”

 

And she walks away, running to the women's lavatory before she falls to pieces inside herself again.

Because she could pretend, she could layer herself in disguise upon disguise, but she could never really leave her curse.

Just like the tattoo on her foot said, this was a permanent thing.

And there was no escape from it.

No chance of redemption.

 

****

“Fancy buying a pack of those Wagon Wheels? I love them.”

 

John turns to see the young man before him, and for a second he blinks in confusion as he doesn't recognize the tall figure. The person that stands by his side as he turns to look from the aisles of the store is tall, taller than he is, and wears a black leather jacket along with tight jeans and old basketball trainers. His skin is pale but not ghostly, a hint of ginger stubble lining the edge of his jaw, and his strawberry-blonde hair combed into neat waves atop his head. He bears light freckles across his nose that scrunch upwards as he smiles lightly, and when he removed the sunglasses covering his eyes John sees those familiar lavender irises glowing in liquid depth. The angel's mouth fell open for a second, and then he leaned over and hissed under his breath.

 

“Father?! I- is that _you_?”

 

“Haven't used this form in a few hundred decades. Decided it was probably time to put it into use again. What do you think?”

 

He answered calmly, twisting and stretching as if testing out the kinks of his new form. John caught the outline of several pale scars lining the expanse of his middle as his shirt rode upwards before God relaxed again, carding a hand through his hair.

Then John is grinning, unable to help himself. Because his Father had listened to him, and now he was here.

 

“It's great to see you.”

 

“You doubted I'd come?”

The guilty lack of response is the only answer that's needed. His Father sighs slightly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking just a little sad.

“It's okay. Honestly I would've had my doubts too. I've been.... distant lately and I apologize. There's a lot going on right now, unfortunately.”

 

The angel suddenly takes in the obvious exhaustion in his Father's posture, though his body outwardly appears to be just a healthy young man. There is a weariness in his features, and he rubs at his eyes as if they burn or itch. It's disconcerting, because God does not usually look so..... _drained._ John touches his arm gently, concern lining his deep blue eyes.

“Are.... you all right? What's going on?”

 

His eyebrows lower as his Father stays stubbornly silent, and John sighs through his teeth and draws away. He tries not to feel hurt or annoyed as he stares at the boxes of biscuits on the shelves, trying to figure out which ones Sherlock would be most likely to eat instead of experiment on.

“Okay. You can't tell me again. I get it. Right.”

 

His Father's voice isn't accusing. Only honest.

“You resent it. When I can't tell you things.”

 

John takes a deep breath, feeling the way it inflates his ribs and makes him feel illogically lighter. He stops himself from shrinking away like a child that's been scolded. Still his wings flinch, quiver slightly. It is an instinctive thing, to fear the hidden power wrapped in layer of disarming charm and gentle care.

And lately, he _has_ felt a little neglected. Which is utterly and totally spoiled of course, so John promptly ignores the compulsion to sulk like a five year old. He suspects he's been spending too much time around Sherlock, and that's why he's finding it so difficult. He replies with some difficulty.

“It's fine.”

 

There is a stretch as both of them take in the weight of lies tossed to one another, both totally unbelievable and tasting bitter on their tongues. His Father's shoulders lower in resignation, his hands clasping together behind his back as he nods slightly, letting John know that he understood that there was nothing he could say to make him feel better. As it is it occurs to John that in all likelihood this is not just a social visit. Because nothing ever is any more. He sighs, blue eyes darkening. However he's the one who called the meeting in the first place, so he decides to lay out his issues first before his Father can chew into him for whatever invisible thing he's done now.

 

“Something tried to stop me a few nights ago..... Tried to keep me from saving Sherlock from that cabbie.”

 

Immediately John knows something is wrong when genuine surprise flickers over his Father's features before he smooths it down into careful concern. He looks at the angel beside him searchingly, as if perhaps he might be able to see under his skin and find the reason that John of all people would be targeted. Perhaps he actually can, and is just looking at how elevated his heart-rate is right now. The memory of that night has John shaking, because every time he closes his eyes he can see what could have happened.

Sherlock, cold and dead in his arms.

White.

Red.

Black.

Poison running through his system that not even John can heal. Watching the life leave those blue-green irises and dull into cold marbles of steel.

Aqua.

He tastes metallic nausea on his tongue.

 

“Did you see anything? Or was there any clue as to who was responsible?”

God asked him sharply, voice low as Humans shuffled around them, oblivious to the tension that laced their conversation. John shuffled and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to recall the _feel_ of the stun force-field that he had ran into. A scrap of his tongue darts out nervously as he tries to control the wave of discomfort at remembering the dizziness it had instilled.

“It was.... It seemed to scramble my perception of things... where things were.... I couldn't reach out to Sherlock for a few minutes it was so powerful....Um, it felt cold and left a bitter taste, so I'd say.... Dark Magic.... Probably not an angel then....”

His Father's eyes darkened in what could almost be mistaken for worry, and he frowned tightly. John got the distinct impression that his observations hadn't been what God had wanted to hear. The young man's voice is low and flat. Emotionless and yet simmering with an energy John didn't want to get to know better. He suddenly grimaced and turned away, pacing slightly in a compacted circle in the aisle, oblivious to people's curious glances at the strange man in the leather coat who seemed to be muttering to himself. John really wished at that moment that his Father had just made them both invisible.

“You must tell me right away when things like this happen! Why did you wait so long to contact me?!”

 

“You weren't answering!”

John snapped at the glowering young man, almost forgetting to lower his voice as he scowled.

“And I didn't know how important it was! Who would target Sherlock? He's an arse but he's not exactly powerful-”

 

“He's more powerful than you _think_.”

His Father retorted, shutting the angel up as he seemed to grouse to himself over some sort of internal sense of failure. In a strangely Sherlockian gesture he folded his hands against his lips in thought as he spun around, violet eyes flashing in a sudden idea as in the next instant he turned and grabbed John by both shoulders, alight with manic energy.

 

“John you have to trust me. We need to get whoever this is off your trail. Chances are they're dangerous even if they're _not_ involved in the issues I've been handling lately up in Heaven. To do that they'll be looking for a lone Guardian and his Human. So we need to _add_ to your group number.”

 

John shifted uneasily, noting the somewhat amused expressions of the passer-bys seeing what looked like for all intents and purposes a rather intense argument breaking out. He kept his voice level, not liking the determined glint in his Father's eyes _at all._ He tried to remind himself that he did trust his Father, but for some reason it was far more difficult than usual.

“There's an angel working at St. Bart's hospital, the place you've thought about getting a job. An _AOD_. We need you to disappear into the brick-work.....”

“Yeah, so?”

 

God's response made sense in reality, but John had to have him repeat it because as soon as he said it, something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach and made him feel like he suddenly wanted to run for his life.

 

“My son, we're going to get you a girlfriend.”

 

****

Of course, if John wasn't so confused and strangely sick after his conversation with his Father, he might have noticed how for approximately twenty minutes, his connection with his Bonded blurred and muted itself. After all, God couldn't have him chasing after Sherlock if he had known that at the moment his Chosen was busy fighting a man heavily wrapped in a variety of scarves and wielding a blade longer than his arm around their flat. As it was, Sherlock felt he handled himself fairly well, although he was more than a little bit annoyed as he checked the state of his suit in the mirror. He'd have Lestrade deal with the unconscious man lying in the middle of his floor later, but for now he supposed tucking him into the closet and locking it shut was the best answer. He felt as he looked about the shredded appearance of his flat that he had done a fairly decent job of not damaging anything that John would notice. After all the man worried over the most curious things, and was always worried that Sherlock was going to break like a toothpick in the face of danger. Preposterous, which was why the Detective told himself he was bothering to clean up.

Not because he didn't want John to worry, but because he didn't want him to worry over _him._

 

His spindly fingers carefully set to work, righting furniture and straightening mirrors that had gone crooked with impact. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have heard downstairs, she was having guests over. However Sherlock is unaware of Charlie's presence, standing at his door and smiling knowingly as he watched the man that usually couldn't be bothered to even reach his own phone carefully arrange the two chairs in the living room so they faced each other. The elderly angel watches as Sherlock kicks the sword that attacked him only a moment before disdainfully under his seat, having no other place to put it. His dark curls glint as he runs a long hand through them before setting to work righting a side-table, and he scowls and rubs at the mark on the table that the sword left when he had been pinned there before shrugging and assuming that John probably wouldn't be able to piece together the clues.

 

It's when he notices that the small locked chest on one of the bookshelves has been knocked over that Sherlock freezes for just a moment, face turning paler than its' already alabaster hue to something grey and faintly sickly. Time stretches as he stares at it, half bent over from picking up a stack of papers, blue eyes transfixed ahead but not seeing what's before him. Charlie frowns faintly, shifting forward to see what has made the young man he's known now for about four years as a manic and energetic presence turn to stone in an instant. It is a simple chest, the kind one might easily pass over upon a cleaning or a dusting, strong wooden hinges sealing it shut with a key-lock.

Yet Sherlock stares at it as if it is a precious treasure, his hands picking it up with utmost delicacy as he sat himself down on the floor cross-legged, the box placed in the bowl of his lap. He touched it almost as if he was afraid of it, and yet at the same time inspected it with utmost care for any nicks or scratches to be seen. Those blue eyes sweep over it with intense speculation, hands drumming softly against the lid as for a moment he just sat and stared at it, unsure of how to move forward or how to move back. He is oblivious to the angel behind him, who nods in silent understanding and decides to excuse himself.

 

Best leave musings of the past private, Charlie always reasoned. His wise eyes blinked owlishly as he walked back down the steps, careful to avoid the ones that creak (the fifth and the twelfth) lest he disturb ghosts of memories that should be left undisturbed.

 

And Sherlock sat there for a long time, unable to open the chest, and yet unable to put it back on the shelf. It was only the realization in the end that John was bound to be home soon that finally made him stand, placing the box carefully so it was hidden by a stack of books. His fingers tingled even after he let it go, begging silently for him to reflect. To remember what he had stubbornly deleted years ago.

What was never really deleted after all, just ignored.

But in the end, he returned to reading in his chair, seeing the pages but not actually absorbing them. When John came home, he didn't bother to correct him on the assumption that he hadn't moved from his seat once. That he had only been reading on and on for hours, not fighting or tearing things apart or trying to keep himself together.

 

After all, in Sherlock's mind, he hadn't.

Only blood and sweat and puzzles stick and corrode and yet at the same time sharpen, ghosts of it couldn't harm him.

Nor could they save him.

He had learned that long ago.

 

And John doesn't notice how preoccupied Sherlock's mind is, because he's trying to dispel the overwhelming feeling of screaming that's clouding his chest and his vision when he thinks of pretending to be in a relationship with someone. He tries to tell himself it's because he thinks he won't be able to pull it off in front of Sherlock, but in truth it's the opposite.

 

Deep down inside, he's for some reason desperately worried that he _can._

And more than ever, he wishes he could defy his Father. That he had "Free Will", that intangible thing that all Humans were born with and yet took for granted. He feels almost like maybe he could fake it, if he were desperate enough. The aching in his chest tells him that at the very least he might try.

But that is thinking that is not for the likes of angels, and he ignores it again in favour of feigned ignorance. Except John knows that each time he does it, it becomes harder and harder to make-believe that he is okay with the way things are.

****

The note of panic in John's voice is carefully contained, but Sherlock notices it anyway. He frowns to himself, wondering why this of all things would make his flatmate worry.

“I-is that my computer?”

John held the groceries he had to go back and buy after his card had failed him, (have to have a talk with Harry about that, he suspected it was her version of a prank) his throat tightening in silent fear as he came in to find Sherlock typing away on his laptop, dangerously close to all the files that John was supposed to keep secretly tucked away on his hard-drive. For a moment he couldn't breathe as he thought about just what he would _do_ if Sherlock happened to have opened the file listed _shopping._ Without looking up from the screen the lanky Detective typed away, deep baritone rumbling even as his face was illuminated by the glowing of the screen and turned his eyes from green-grey to ice blue.

“Of course.”

 

“What-”

John began, trying to ask _how_ he managed to break into his _password-protected_ laptop and _why_ he would do it, considering the man had a computer of his own not more than twenty feet away in the room upstairs. Sherlock however answered his question before it could fully form, casually going through his email even as his hands flew over the keys with a grace even an angel could envy.

 

“Mine was in the bedroom....”

 

“What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?!”

 

“It's password- _protected!_ ”

He spluttered, and really, didn't that have to mean _something?_ Did Human security really have so many flaws that it couldn't even protect a simple computer from being _hacked?_ He was told that a password would keep most things safe, but apparently his Chosen as usual was an exception to the rule. He eyed the computer nervously, hands twitching at his sides as he tried to find a way to get it out of Sherlock's hands before he opened something dangerous.

 

“In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox.”

The Detective snorted rudely, eyes flicking over the email in calculation before him.

Interesting.

Sebastian Wilkes. Now there was a name he hadn't heard in quite awhile. Not that he had ever particularly _wanted_ to hear it in the first place. The case he presented.....

It could very well be at least a seven if he was lucky.

Higher if he was right.

He has just enough time to reply before John loses it, lunging forward in irritation and panic to grab the laptop from Sherlock's moving fingers. His voice is final and curt, and the Detective not for the first time wonders if his flatmate isn't perhaps just slightly neurotic.

 

“Right. Thank you.”

 

And John stalks off, fuming in his head and determined to come up with a better password than _Strawberry-Jam._

He doesn't notice how Sherlock's eyes follow him, seeing a remnant of a person long gone, or the brief flash of pain Sherlock feels as he wonders if maybe he's actually upset him. For a moment he takes a second just to appreciate the fact that John has not yet left him, and the Detective wonders what it means. Because surely, all the others would have left by now. And the likes of John deserved a heck of a lot more than Sherlock Holmes could offer.

Maybe that was why the next second he turned around and told Sherlock that he was getting a job.

Maybe he needed a break from him.

So the Detective ignored the possessive, ugly surge of jealousy that demanded inside of him that he keep John from going anywhere without him, instead shrugging in utter indifference.

Because if it made John happy and he always inevitably came back, Sherlock would let him run away from him.

If only for a few hours a day, anyhow.

His selfish side at least would allow that much.....

After all, he had learned his lesson long ago. He was not allowed love, the most he could hope for was possession. And he would take over John eventually, absorb him utterly and leave him a shell of who he used to be if he didn't allow space. He would take and take and never think to give back, because that was how he was. That was the price, the payment of someone else's affection. Sherlock would eventually watch them die because of him.

 

Little did the Detective know just how utterly right, and utterly wrong he already was.

****

The tunnels underneath London at night are dangerous things. He knows this better than many, his dark eyes open and alert for the first sign of danger even as he grips the penknife in his hands. He lies on his side surrounded by a few other homeless people, lying on the pavement and ignoring the smell of drunken piss and garbage that fills his nose as his gaze flicks about in silence in search of the noise that has woken him up. It's late, somehow he knows this even as he sits up slowly, his hands tightening about his cheap weapon and his body instinctively curling deeper into the shadow of the curving wall he lies against. In all of his eighteen years, he's never not known what time of day it is. He doesn't know why, but supposes it's part of being what he is.

 _Who_ he is.

It comes in handy now, especially when he can't see more than a few feet in front of him. Most of the makeshift fires and torches have died down, their smoke still heavy in the air. There are still a few flickering outlines of cigarette butts glowing to their deaths on the ground. He strains again, listening for any kind of movement. He struggles to keep his breath even and slow as he pulls his worn brown jacket tighter about his thin frame. He sees how many of _their_ kind are awake, eyes wide and wings quivering as they crouch over their _Chosen's_ protectively. He had no one to do so, but he knew that alone was a sign that something was very wrong.

If _they_ were afraid, then he most definitely _should_ be.

 

_......There._

He hears it again, the sort of scuffling, scraping noise. It's like footsteps, but somehow lighter. Like the person is used to creeping in silent spaces. His upper lip curls in anticipation, knife raised defensively as slowly he rose to walk towards the general area of the sound. It was probably just a police man, in which case the most he would get are charges for loitering, but he wants to be sure before he goes back to sleep. After all he hasn't survived for this long without being cautious. He is soundless as he moves, creeping closer to the edge of the tunnel that connects to the room as he holds his knife at ready. Sweat beading his brow and heart hammering in his ribs, he licks his lips nervously as for a moment he waited just by the entrance to it, tasting the cool air that wafted from its' depths. It is black darkness in the tunnel, and he knows he shouldn't go any further without at least a torch. However he doesn't have many options, and as it is he can already hear the small snarls as angels try and warn _whatever_ it is that's in there away.

They do the same to him, so it's possible that it's just another person like him.

Possible, but something tells him in his gut it's not.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he turns into the tunnel, allowing himself to become wrapped in the darkness of the unknown even as his knife-hand doesn't tremble before him.

 

The rest of the angels wait and listen, hardly daring to breathe as they watched the Nephilim man disappear. For a while, all that can be heard are his faint footsteps and dripping water from somewhere, probably from leaking pipes down below.

 

Then his scream pierces the night air, and the Humans that were sleeping are now wide awake, looking for the source of the cry. The angels shudder, backing away as they wrap protectively about their Chosen's, praying that they will not be taken too.

 

However nothing comes out from the tunnel, neither man nor beast, and the night is uneasy as Human and angel alike spend the rest of it wide awake, on edge in their ring of light surrounded by darkness on all sides.


	16. Whispers Of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, my goal is two more chapters before I have to take a small break in order to move with my family ;P
> 
> That will bring us to the end of The Great Game, which will have... interesting consequences of course :D  
> song is this is war by 30 seconds to mars <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy! kudos/comments/origami animals are welcome XD
> 
> *mumbles something about the wonders of writing sexual tension into storylines and how much fun it is*

 

_A warning to the prophet,_   
_The liar, the honest,_   
_This is war._   
_To the leader, the pariah,_   
_The victor, the messiah,_   
_This is war._   
_It's the moment of truth, and the moment to lie,_   
_The moment to live and the moment to die,_   
_The moment to fight, the moment to fight,_   
_To fight, to fight, to fight!_   
_To the right, To the left_   
_We will fight to the death!_   
_To the edge of the earth_   
_It's a brave new world_   
_From the last to the first_

_It's a brave new world..._

John immediately, right away without any reason given to him whatsoever, does _not_ like Sebastian Wilkes. He has learned over time that he actually seems to have a pretty good gut instinct at judging people, perhaps because of Sherlock's presence in his head constantly analyzing everything and everyone around him like a lighthouse shining out on dark boats at sea. Or maybe it's the fact that the man's angel shows clear colours of a serial adulterer along with the sort of pretentious gold lining his feathers that speaks of an ego used to getting stroked. Either way, he did not expect to find himself at Tower 42 Old Broad Street at a bank that looked more like a high-tech mother-ship from an episode of _Star Trek_ (Which was another show he thoroughly enjoyed watching, if only because a certain Vulcan reminded him a little of his Detective.) He had gaped in wide-eyed wonder as his Chosen had calmly stalked past security, disbelieving at sheer _busyness_ of the place. Everywhere he looked it seemed there was something to watch. Humans shuffled all about him, weaving in and out amongst each other in a perfect synchrony that came with a well-oiled machine, above them lights flashing off information to other screens, bouncing back and forth like a chaotic game of pinball. John was nearly _overwhelmed_ with the organized shuffling in front of him and also above him, angels navigating amongst each other like clockwork, easy and simple. Barely any even cast him a glance as he passed, and the angel soon realized why. There were several _AOD's_ milling about actually, more than he had seen in one area than any other before. He soon saw why.

  


Being a banker as it turned out had more danger in its' occupation than apparently John had first assumed.

  


Through all of this, Sherlock had been giving off a faint buzz of discomfort, but it increased as he smiled at the woman at the front desk falsely and murmured

“Sherlock Holmes.”

  


The answer as to why his Chosen had become steadily more and more tense on the ride over in the Cab was soon answered as they came to sit in Sebastian Wilkes' office.

The man had light brown hair and a smarmy smile, and he grinned a lot and quite falsely as he laid eyes on Sherlock and John. Behind him his angel grinned in an equally false way, his light green eyes glimmering as he stretched his wings out in the sun shining from between the shades of the man's window.

  


“Sherlock Holmes.”

The man grasped Sherlock's offered hand in both of his own, and John couldn't help but mentally growl _MINE_ at the tone of over-familiarity. Then he blinks, unsure of where the strange pulling bout of possessiveness had come from.

  


“Sebastian.”

Sherlock seemed equally uncomfortable with the sensation of touch, his eyes tight and hard as he flicked his gaze over the man's form, reading in him the details of his life and the past few weeks with the briefest brush of calculated deduction. John has to hold back a smirk of pride, noting how the Detective doesn't say anything out loud just yet. He can tell Sherlock is saving it as a weapon of words for later on.

  


“Howdy buddy! How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you.”

  


_I'll clap something onto you soon if you don't stop pulling at his hand like that._

John thought, but didn't say anything until the man turned and laid eyes upon him appraisingly. The angel couldn't help but note the touch of tentative pride that Sherlock explained his presence in front of Sebastian. Suddenly not unlike a little kid proving that an imaginary friend is real before a school ground bully, his Chosen smiled and said

  


“This is my _friend,_ John Watson.”

  


At those words, a strange feeling overcomes John. One that he cannot quite describe. It is a sort of warm flush, almost like he had a fever. Almost fluttery, but not in a painful way. It's like swimming in a bottle of carbonated soda, bubbles tingling along his skin from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He has to bite his lip to keep a small and stupid smile crawling across his face, and might have wound up grinning anyway if he didn't notice the horrified and disapproving glance that Sebastian's angel was giving him. To John's horror, he realized his wings were once again that soft smitten pink, and this time he had to work to get the colour to leave his feathers completely. Feeling embarrassed and a little ashamed, his voice cut perhaps a little more sharply than he had intended.

  


“ _Colleague._ ”

  


He wouldn't have had to read Sherlock's mind to feel the hurt and the inward flinch at John's correction. Feeling like he had just thrown his Chosen under the bus, he glared up at Sebastian's face as the man grinned, turning to Sherlock with an arched brow.

“Right? Right.”

His tone seemed to imply smugly that he _thought_ Sherlock didn't have any friends. John grit his teeth and pursed his lips, wishing he could take his statement back immediately. There was a cool sort of detachment about Sherlock now, and a distant look in his eyes as he shut himself off from dealing with the dull ache he felt at John's denial of their friendship. His eyes latch onto Sebastian's wristwatch before the man turns away, and his secretary walks into the room as the businessman seats himself behind his desk with a sigh of aching bones.

“Well, grab a pew. D'you need anything? Coffee? Water?”

  


Sherlock shook his head just as John murmured a terse

“No.”

  


Sebastian asked them again, but after it was obvious that neither of the odd pair wanted anything from him, he sent his secretary away with another beaming smile. The click of the door closing behind them seems to signal that they are to be given privacy for this meeting, and despite Sherlock's obvious discomfort John can tell the Detective is at least mildly interested in the case being presented to him. He disguises it a bit by saying softly

“So, you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot.”

  


Sebastian shrugged slightly, rubbing the back of his neck in a relaxed sort of way as he relaxed into his chair.

“Well, some.”

  


“Flying all 'round the world twice in a month?”

John frowned, wondering how Sherlock could tell, but he is more annoyed with how Sebastian tilts his head back and laughs, pointing his finger at his Chosen in such a way that John is almost _sure_ he could pretend is threatening it he put his mind to it.

“Right. You're doing that..... _thing._ ” And the way he said the word _thing,_ one would think Sherlock was shedding his skin like a snake or drinking pure arsenic out of a bottle. John bristled, trying to keep his face suitably blank and probably failing, as Sebastian's angel shifted subtly behind him. A silent warning that he could not attack without giving himself away, not to mention possibly getting injured himself. Still, he couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to slam the man's head down on the desk and _press_ just a little, if not throttle him.

Sebastian carried on, oblivious to how John's hands tightened into fists, the angel oblivious to how Sherlock's eyes flicked to the state of the soldier's hands and smirked slightly.

  


“We were at Uni together. This guy had a trick here he used to do.”

  


Pain. That is all that John feels in Sherlock's mind. Pain and a genuine _fear_ of the past, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from _demanding_ just what the _Hell_ this bastard had done to his Chosen while he had been gone. The fact that he hadn't _been there_ to stop him either niggled at the back of John's mind, and he grimaced as Sherlock very quietly mumbled into his scarf

“It's... not a trick.”

  


“He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.”

The man continued on, seemingly indifferent to the obvious pain he was causing Sherlock at remembering his Uni days. Because really, wasn't it _obvious_ to everyone? John's wings were practically _black_ in remembrance, surely that kind of panic _had_ to at least be sensed somehow by someone other than him? Or was Sherlock's mask to other people just too bloody _good_ that people couldn't see what was right under their damn noses? Or were people really so heartless? The realization that people had _hurt_ Sherlock while he was gone made John almost physically sick, and he had to breathe sharply through his mouth to keep his vision from flashing red.

  


“Yes. I've seen him _do_ it.”

_It's real. It's not a trick you idiot._

  


“Put the wind up everybody. We hated him.”

_Hate._

And oh, that was very much the _wrong_ thing to say. But Sebastian clearly had a death wish, because he didn't stop. He just kept adding fuel to the fire, and John's wings _quivered_ with the desire to hit him.

“You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal hall and this _freak_ would know you'd been shagging the previous night.”

  


Before John could retort hotly that it wasn't _Sherlock's_ fault that he had been shagging _ugly_ people, the Detective spoke. His voice didn't hold the usual bite it had though. It was deadened, cut off and remote.

“I simply observed.”

  


And the quiet thought, the one that Sherlock didn't voice but wanted to.

_I couldn't help it. I really couldn't._

  


Sebastian turned to the Detective, the smirk evident on his features. He was obviously used to being a bully, and revelled in the feeling. Like most head bankers, he knew where to cut and how to draw blood.

“Go on then, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world-

you're quite right. How could you tell?”

  


Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but apparently it was a rhetorical question as Sebastian continued on with his smugly mocking tone.

“You're gonna tell me there was um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup that you can only buy in Manhattan?”

  


John didn't know he considered himself capable of murder. The cabbie hadn't counted in his mind. Now he was debating it.

Seriously.

“No, I-”

Again Sherlock tried to speak, again Sebastian interjected.

  


“Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!”

  


Sherlock just stared at him. A sort of long, baleful look that finally caused Sebastian's jeers to fade away as he saw the coldness in their depths. It took John a second to realize it, but it wasn't just his Chosen's stare that made the businessman stop. It was the fact that he could finally sense the _aura_ John was giving off, and his angel was cowering slightly in fear.

A barely perceptible shiver ran down the man's spine as Sherlock very simply said

“I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me.”

  


And the utter draining of all humour from Sebastian's face was so worth it and wondrously _gratifying_ to watch that John didn't comment on the bold-face lie Sherlock had just told until they were already back outside and on their way to another lead of the case before them.

He thinks he might call this one _The Blind Banker._ Not because of the message given to them, the painting of the man's eyes blindfolded with yellow spray-paint, but because people like Sebastian might be very good at determining the wealth and value of money......

But they were absolute crap at seeing the value in _people._

  


And so, enemies were now working together towards a common goal. John tried not to feel too disappointed in the fact that he never got to hit Sebastian after all.

****

“Haven't seen that form in quite awhile.”

The young man in the leather jacket doesn't turn around, at the voice, his hair blowing lightly as he stood on the edge of the building, gazing up at the stars above his head and breathing wisps of clouds into the cool night air. His lavender eyes shine softly in the dark, reflecting the Heavens above in twin pools of symmetrical beauty as he let the edge of his toes teeter on the precipice of St. Bart's hospital. God's voice is quiet, good natured.

“You don't come to see the Cities very often, Orifiel.”

  


There is a soft, feminine chuckle, and the woman steps out from behind the shadow of the door.

“You know how I despise civilization, all the smog and greed makes me sick to my stomach. Though it's harder to get away from it than it used to be, lately I've had to dwell all the way up mount Everest just to get some bloody peace and quiet.”

  


The angel that God turns to face smiles slightly, eyes an electric forest green and standing out starkly against her caramel-coloured skin. She wears a soft green rain jacket and dark blue jeans, golden sandals looking thoroughly modern and actually quite pretty. She tilts her head to the side in silent question as to why she has been summoned here, and when she does her head of tightly wound dark dark bobs with her. Her wings are a bright lime green, brighter even than her irises.

She radiates power in a way only an archangel can.

  


“I'm sensing the balance has begun to be tipped.” God answers honestly, clasping his hands behind his back and staring out onto the busy streets of London below. The sound of cars blaring their horns sound as some guy cuts another stranger off. _Billy Green_ and _Robin Westin_ , but no one else would know that but him. He blinks as their two images flash across his face before he turns away from the edge of the building, stepping down to come closer to the woman staring at him in hard scrutinization.

“Should we be concerned yet? It's been tipped before and we've righted it..... Is that why you're taking your Battle-Form? Is it really that bad?”

He can sense the urgency under her tone, well-hidden from years of practice but sharp. God debates for a moment, looking at the possible futures in his mind and sighing in frustration and exhaustion. All so blurry, all so _uncertain._ This was the problem with Free Will, as it really screwed over any definite time line and instead made it a tangled ball that he was forced to unravel with a crowbar and scissors. It was like trying to take apart a bunch of magnets all clustered together, try and pull one out and you still ended up with two or three others attached. Branches, all equally likely and equally improbable. He smiled weakly at his old friend looked at him for reassurance, her mouth turning downwards as she found none.

  


“It's still too indistinct to see, but on all of the paths there's a lot of bloodshed that's going to be difficult to avoid.”

Orifiel crossed her hands about her stomach, shivering slightly at the grim note in his voice. To hear the Creator of the Universe sound so certain about something that did not bode well, it was not encouraging for the archangel. Her voice is soft as she murmured

“Isn't that what life is? A cold and harsh reality of blood?”

At his look of distaste, she softened just a little.

  


“The animals have felt it too, I've seen birds migrating in patterns they normally wouldn't, and the Dragons have been moving closer to Humans Cities because their food is becoming sparse. I thought it was just that the Climate is changing right now, but.... I feel like The Council should be informed soon.....”

  


She pauses, and in her eyes there is a kind of sadness. Father gently reaches up to rest a hand on her shoulder, looking into the archangel's eyes that are filled with pain.

“What happened?”

  


“I found a nest of Faeries.... and they were all-”

She covered her mouth then with her hands, unable to keep the small sob from shaking her form. God's eyebrows lowered in concern, thinking she might not be able to talk about it, but Orifiel bit out her next words in fury.

  


“Their wings had been turned _**Dark.**_ They couldn't fly and were in horrible agony. I had to put down an entire colony of _rare_ creatures because I couldn't _Heal_ them.”

  


She took a deep breath then, refusing to break down into tears. She had been alive for countless eons, had seen species die out and new ones come to life. Yet there was always something infinitely _agonizing_ about destroying something, especially since Orifiel's soul power was _creation._ She guarded the unclaimed parts of nature from Humans, and brought Spring to the land after a long Winter. She had ridden on the backs of the greatest Dragons and slept amongst Werewolves when she needed a place to hide during The War when she had been gravely injured and Her Earth had moaned in suffering. She was Mother Earth, so how could it not upset her when her _child_ began to sicken and die?

  


“Tell me what to do.” She demanded of the man before her, voice thick with emotion. She is remembering what The War did now, all the victims and all of the casualties. She is seeing the death and the dying and the _burning_ that had filled her once-clean atmosphere with smoke. She is remembering that high and cruel laugh, and teeth stretching upwards into a manic grin. The archangel _cannot_ allow that to happen again. It didn't matter _who_ it was, she had to stop it.

“Tell me that this will get fixed. Whatever _**He**_ is doing-”

  


“It _will_. Orifiel. I won't let another War begin if I can help it.” Her Father said firmly, zipping up the catch of his jacket against the chill and staring up at the moon so his eyes glowed in an unearthly way. The way the pallor of light hit his face, the archangel for a moment is caught breathless at the sight of something so _powerful_ and _terrifying_ before her. For in the moonlight she could _see_ the power radiating off of the man before her in bright lavender waves, seemingly holding the galaxy itself within its' depth. There is no hint of the child that God has for so long played a charade as, no softness in his features and a strange commanding presence. It is a form that she has not seen for some time, and one that many people whisper about but often forget when they hug or greet the strawberry-blonde child that comes to visit. The man before her is a _monster,_ and he is unwilling to share the things he cares about. She just counts herself lucky in that moment that she is on _his_ side, because as it is her legs sway as if demanding that she bow before the warrior that is slowly overtaking the friendly Father façade that God once wore. His eyes are no longer simmering with a complacent sort of love, but a fierce one. The kind that have driven men to do unspeakable things to protect the things they deem precious to them.

  


She doesn't question in that moment whether or not she can trust him, because that is not an angel's way. Not their compulsion. Instead she kneels, letting her wings curl about her in respect for her Master as in a reverent voice she murmured

“I trust you, _Yahweh._ If you need me, I will do as you ask.”

Her Father's voice is soft, but it carries a weight behind it. A bell sort of ringing that tingles along the archangel's spine and leaves her nearly fainting with the wash of power behind the words. Compelling, leaving no room to question in the slightest.

Unbowing.

Unbreaking.

He stands on the edge once more of the building, uncaring or unheeding of the fall below. Because he has fallen from great heights before, and he doesn't mean just the physical. A God must not be afraid to come tumbling down from his pedestal, or he would have crumbled long ago. No, he must _fight_ for it, even if it meant setting the world he had created to flame.

It was still better than watching it disappear forever.

People in their scriptures called him a _Messiah_ or a Healer, but he was none of those things. He wasn't so far deluded to believe those lies.

No.

He was destruction and chaos.

He was _energy_ at its' purest form.

  


“Gather your strongest of creatures. Tell them to be ready. Just in case....”

In his head, the drumbeat of War whispered a steady rhythm to his thoughts.

  


****

She knows immediately who is coming after her.

After all, who else could it be?

As soon as she saw the numbers, she knew they had found her out. All those careful months of planning, every time she only carefully fed once every three months....

All for nothing as she relived the horror she had felt when she had taken that crisp white sheet off of the sculpture and seen her doom painted in a bright yellow manifestation of Death. Her eyes close, and she sits curled in the bed of the Motel she's rented. Her reptilian wings stretch about her, shifting uneasily as Soo Lin once again wonders why she has bothered to hide. Sooner or later, he would come to her. He didn't really need an excuse to hate her, but now he had reason as one of their smugglers has stolen merchandise. An irrational part of her had hoped they would forget her, that somehow she had dropped off of the map. But that had been wishful thinking, and now she saw that as she looked at the small suitcase of clothes she had managed to grab from her apartment before she had begun to run. Like an abandoned child it sat in the corner of the room she had rented, tiny and sparse and carrying only the things she truly held dear to her.

She hadn't been able to take the teapots.

Though she could have navigated through the security system with pathetic ease, a part of her knew she wouldn't be able to care them for much longer. If she died, they'd be abandoned wherever she left them, probably discarded in the trash as some Human mistook their worth. The thought made her hands tighten about her knees reflexively, eyes slitting in hatred. It was the only thing she had of her past, and she didn't want to _lose_ them. She was still living far too close to the Museum, and she knew this. Yet she was pulled back, night after night despite the fact that soon she knew her hiding place wouldn't be good enough. It was a painful give and take, a risk that in which each day passed the stakes raised higher and higher. Demons were supposed to be the creatures that went bump in the night, the Monsters that crept in the dark and stole people's souls, and while it was partially true, Soo Lin wondered to herself what a Human might think if they saw the tears that flowed down her face and the way she clasped her hands and tried to utter even the simplest prayer to God, even though her tongue no longer let her say the name. She had traded her heart for strength, but now she felt helpless and weak and so very _alone._

Because the truth was she missed him, and a part of her was glad that in the end, he'd be the one to hold the gun to her head and pull the trigger.

At least in Hell she might be able to say she was sorry to him, even though he might never forgive her for her betrayal.

Her dark hair hid her face as she sobbed silently against her knees, rocking and feeling so small even as her tail lashed and her wings spread to fill the expanse of the room.

Blocking out the moonlight in the window so that she couldn't see the stars that fell across the sky as a silent message to the angels below to beware, and be ready.

  


****

John finds himself spending the last part of the day desperately wishing he could just _fly_ in front of his Chosen, if only so he could _enter the damn apartment_ that the Detective has just successively broken his way into by convincing (flirting with) a woman into letting him use her balcony. As it was now he was stuck ringing the doorbell outside of Van Coon's flat, calling his Chosen's name plaintively even while fidgeting at the feeling of letting Sherlock out of his sight. He could feel the Bond whining somewhat, and realized that since the episode with the cabbie he hadn't left Sherlock's side for more than a few hours, and always under his own terms. Now he didn't like this element of no control, and he called again to the Detective as his voice rose in slow panic.

  


“Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in!?”

  


Sherlock was ignoring him. John could feel the preoccupied buzz in the back of his mind that meant he was going to be put in second-place for a while as the Detective wandered about the apartment, overturning things placed on the counters and bobbing like a rabbit out of its' hole as he twisted and turned about the flat. So far, his search yielded little of interest.

He sees a bottle of hand-cream, expensive but not overly fascinating, and clean white walls with clean white sinks and tiles. The kitchen is even bare. The Detective frowns, noting the left-handedness of the man by the toast left partially eaten in the living room and his mug. Other clues too. However Sherlock feels his gut pulling him back to the bathroom once again, and he trusts it to lead him. His green-blue eyes take in his appearance, black monochrome against surrounding white before he understood what his Mind-Palace was trying to say to him. In a flash of inspiration Sherlock crouched in front of the sink cupboards, pulling the brass handles open to reveal the contents inside. At first, all there is are things to be expected. A comb, a toothbrush, some toothpaste and hydrogen peroxide for cuts. However the Detective carefully pushes those aside, and his eyes latch onto a holder that looked like it was for test-tubes. Though most of the test-tubes were empty, he sees three filled with a liquid that when he holds it up to the sterile light glittered a strange, translucent gold.

  


_Hello, what have we got here?_

He grins in triumph, tucking all three bottles into his coat pocket with deft fingers for later evaluation.

  


John is just about to climb the balcony himself (he'd make up some sort of excuse of how he got there) When there was a sudden and definite spike in Sherlock's Bond as his Chosen discovered something that was at least marginally _exciting._

  


However, when the Detective finally let John into the apartment, John did not expect what they found lying dead and unmoving on the middle of the bed with a bullet wound to his right temple.

After all, Sherlock couldn't see the bat-like wings and the tail, but the angel very nearly pulled him from the room by the collar of his coat in panic as soon as he laid eyes on it.

His breathing cut short.

His eyes went wide.

His wings flashed dishwater yellow in fear.

A Demon.

Eddie Van Coon was a _Demon._

And Sherlock, unable to see the ripped, leathery wings or the curling horns coming out from the man's head, skipped about the body with glee.

The case very suddenly had taken a turn that John didn't know if he could handle.

  


****

Contrary to popular belief, a Demon is not a Fallen Angel. Fallen Angels are actually a different thing entirely, as they are Vampiric in nature and feed on the blood of Humans. Much to the movie making industry's benefit however, not many Humans are aware of this fact. John couldn't watch things like _Paranormal Activity_ , mostly because he couldn't stop laughing at how horribly _incorrect_ and _warped_ supposed monster facts _were._

The Fallen are infinitely more dangerous than Demons, as they possess all the abilities of an angel, and use them for decidedly evil purposes. A Demon however is much more common to _find,_ as they are the footsoldiers of Hell and tended to hang out on Earth because they were better at disguising themselves. This is because a Demon was once Human, and therefore could recognize how Humans _think._ They are able to use simple Dark Magic Spells, and instead of feeding on blood they feed on _energy_ , ripping the souls out of Humans and leaving them dry husks as their angel is literally absorbed in the process of feeding.

  


John is aware of the fact as well that Demon's can die much more easily than a Fallen can, but he is still at first very cautious about approaching Van Coon's body. Sherlock looks at him strangely as he hovers by the doorway, caught between wanting to scream at his Chosen to get over here so he could protect him and not causing a scene. His wings hover an indecisive teal for a second, until finally John decides with resignation that the most he can do is protect Sherlock discreetly by keeping himself between him and the body as much as possible without seeming obvious.

That out of the way, the investigation of why a _Demon_ would perform suicide seems to come along rather smoothly. At least as smoothly as it ever would with Sherlock, as the man had a habit of naturally pissing off the people around him at the most inconvenient times possible.

The winning answer:

  


Not suicide.

Murder.

Apparently even Demons were right or left handed.

Much to Detective Inspector Dimmock's annoyance and chagrin.

He had no idea how quickly his angel Pierrot backed out of that room in panic and shock. John at least was proud of the knowledge that _he_ didn't make his Chosen sick with fear.

Sherlock had smirked in delighted and triumphant surprise when the Inspector vomited outside.

John thought that perhaps he should tell his Father, but when he called out he got no answer. He didn't particularly feel like chasing him down, as petty as it sounded.

He was starting to get sick of being ignored, especially when Sherlock looked at him and grinned that special, open smile and made John feel so _wanted._

Somehow, the taste of War and battle seemed sweeter under that gaze.

****

Sebastian hadn't been overly thrilled either with the news. Mostly because Dimmock was an idiot and told him anyway that it was a suicide. Sherlock quietly seethed, annoyed that Lestrade was busy, angry that even after all these years of working with the police he was _still_ considered by most to be little more than a _pest_. It didn't matter how many cases he solved, or how many times he was _right_ , people looked at him and _still_ saw the drug addict, the waif that Greg had pulled inside his office all those years ago. Treated as if he was the dirt under someone's shoes.

Infuriating.

_Frustrating._

He knew what he was doing, that wasn't the issue. They were all aware of that, on some level. It was partly why they hated him so much. Because he was so rarely actually _wrong._

But because they were afraid of being associated with him, annoyed with working with him, they let the puzzle suffer.

 _That_ , in his opinion, was inexcusable.

Lestrade for all of his jibes, all of his anger and all of his annoyance, never actually _let_ the puzzle suffer! At least not intentionally anyway, after all it was not his fault he was stupid like most of the population. He at least had good instincts.....once in a while.

And he often ignored or looked over the reality that Sherlock probably had no business involving himself in cases, because he believed in _results._

Which if nothing else, the Detective always supplied.

Sherlock sighed, wishing he could have a cigarette. Except he was doing well, and he didn't want to give up just yet. He thought perhaps he could beat it.....

Again.

  


He only had two patches on anyway.

He wanted to pace.

He wanted to _move._

_He wanted more._

He wanted to get rid of this ridiculous energy that sang through him, _demanding_ he do something while the police got their heads out of their asses and realized that he was _right._

But he knew he'd get nothing from no one. No help and no relief. There were days when Sherlock longed to shoot up again, and today seemed like it was going to just be one of those days.

  


Except now.......... there's a _hand_ on his arm. Reaching out and pulling on his sleeve.

Stilling him.

Calming him.

Sending the oddest electric current straight into his soft tissue.

He almost shakes it away, until he comes back to himself and sees John beside him, looking a little timid but stubborn. The blonde looks at him with those deep blue eyes, seeming to be trying to say something. Sherlock scans him, reading in the tilt of his eyebrows and the grip of the fingers that wrap around his biceps. His instinct to glare, to make the man back down like an alpha dog and get the other person to retreat. Not just because he's not in the mood to talk, but because he does not normally appreciate touch. However he doesn't feel the incessant need to shrink away from John's touch for some reason like the others, as if the Army Doctor somehow has an unconscious power to bypass his base instincts and fences. That, Sherlock thinks, is not necessarily a good thing as he finds himself wondering what it would be like to reach out and take those fingers in his own, to experiment on them and find the chemical that leached from them and made him turn from a stone into something flustered and suddenly unsure and ineloquent.

  


“Um...” John said, words not entirely flowing for him either. He swallows nervously, and Sherlock's eyes dart towards the movement and threatens the angel's composure as he can feel a red blush creeping up his neck once again.

“Right.” John said, then cursed himself and tried again, moving his hand away as the warmth coming off of Sherlock was entirely distracting.

“I've seen.... What Sebastian says about you..... That is to say.... Um....”

  


The Detective blinked, looking vaguely confused. His deep baritone rumbled in deduction, but it held a note of uncertainty. As if John would choose this moment to _lie_ , like he ever actually would.

“It.... bothers you? When they talk about me.... Why would it bother _you_?”

  


John wants to say it's because he's his Guardian. Wants to say it's because it's his fault, because he wasn't _there_ and couldn't stop them. He wants to suddenly pull on their Bond, make Sherlock feel the protectiveness the angel feels for his Chosen, like a persistent ache in his chest ever time someone calls him a freak or abnormal. Because every time they do it John can _feel_ the pain, pulsing inside him like a wound that never fully got the chance to heal, always torn back open to leave it throbbing and infected. The angel had gotten used to wounds over the years, and could so together a hurt without even thinking about it. Stitches and bandages were second nature to him, almost as much as Healing Magic. Yet not even the Memories of an Army Medic could teach him how to fix emotional breaks and tears. He barely understood his own, let alone some else's. An angel being a therapist was laughable.

Still, he felt like he had to say _something._ So as usual, he went with his gut instinct. After all, it had only failed him half a dozen times before.

  


“If you want to talk about it.... Not that I'll make you or anything.... just.... I'm here...”

  


Sherlock looked at him for a long time, his blue-grey eyes holding John's and seeming to ask him questions that the angel couldn't interpret or hope to reply to. They stood like that for a few moments, staring at each other, trying to read each other's motives and utterly failing to realize they were the exact same thing.

Because one was an angel and didn't understand his feelings, and the other had suppressed his emotions for so long it _scared_ him that they slipped out when John was around.

  


Still, it wasn't entirely all bad, Sherlock thought.

And if it was John, he suspected he wouldn't mind if the Detective wanted to hold his hand.

After all, the line between flatmate and friend between them was blurred at best, non-existent at worse.

An experiment for later.

After all, he felt pleasantly warm for the rest of the walk home, both physically and in a way that was much harder to define.

  


John was disgusted with himself as he glanced at his wings, and saw once again that persistent pink crawling up his primary feathers like a parasite that just wouldn't leave. Yet Sherlock was giving off such an unusually bright wave of happiness, he couldn't quite bring himself to feel as much shame about it as before. The two walked side by side, silently feeding each other their good mood's and strengthening the Bond between them.

  


****

She has the sort of quiet beauty about her that makes John think of a bird, her hair a pale caramel red-brown and her eyes a soft sky-blue. She has skin that is English-rose and white, and an easy sort of smile that John supposes he could get used to seeing. Her wings are cream-coloured with whorls and twisting vines of soft lavender. She introduces herself as Sarah. Sarah Sawyer.

All in all, the angel is distinctly reminded of a renaissance painting when he looks at her, all soft edges and smooth lines.

She is pretty, and as fake girlfriends go, John supposes that the two of them will probably get along reasonably well. Sarah says she is okay with the situation, because he obviously wants to make sure that she's just not being coerced into this by his Father. She's not, at least she doesn't admit it. She seems to be happy to help.

  


John tries to hide is disappointment in the utter perfection of it all.

He's not sure if he succeeds entirely.

  


****

She used to have a name.

She knows that, somewhere deep inside. It's hard to find sometimes, especially when _**The Beast**_ is awake and shifting inside her. As it does when the full moon isn't far away, it causes her to pace her Kennel, the metal bars seeming like more of a prison than usual as she snarls in the dark. She is not alone.

Beside her, her Pack writhes and twists inside their containments, the shell of their Human forms becoming tight and uncomfortable as night draws clear and cool. She knows the feeling, her bones seeming too large to fit inside her skin, the sensation sending goosebumps along her bare spine. Her hands finger the Collar about her neck, right now far too large but soon would choke her, bring her to her knees. She knows soon she will lose herself, that _**He**_ will come and let them out, provided _**The Beast**_ inside her plays by his rules. If she agrees to it, she will get to run, as her limbs scream and beg for her to do. She will chase and Hunt and track the people he wants, the ones without angels.

She knows the word, thick on her tongue because she hasn't spoken in so long to anyone in anything other then howls and barks.

_Nephilim._

  


Why _**He**_ wanted them, she didn't know. She didn't dare ask. Nothing good, in all probability. Her Da used to tell her that some people just wanted to watch the world burn, and though she had laughed at it at the time, she wondered if maybe that was the man's only intention. Maybe there _was_ no reason for it, and he simply did it because he was _bored._ The thought made her shudder, almost as much as the feeling of hunger that coursed through her belly.

As it got closer to her time, it got worse. The cramping in her stomach, the twisting of knots as she has to feed two beings instead of one. Jekyll and Hyde, she remembers that story. It's how she felt, the Monster and the Person, Enemies tearing each other apart and yet unable to kill themselves or claim victory because they were infinitely attached. Split, two halves of the same coin, and when she closed her eyes she wasn't sure which was really her, the girl or _**The Wolf.**_

As if in response, one of her Pack Mates lets out a strangled howl, the noise half-animal and half-Human. The temptation to join in it is strong, but she resists, unwilling to let _**The Beast**_ have its' way with her so long as she still had her mind. Around her, the others chorused along, their strange song mournful and terrifying, a strange sound of two things that should meld together being forcibly united to create an abomination.

She wondered to herself what her Da used to call her, even as she looked up at the hole in the roof of the warehouse they were trapped in, staring at the moon that has already begun to fill out pregnantly in the sky. Then she wonders how he would look at her now, what he might say.

Would he be angry?

Ashamed of what had happened, even though she didn't think it was her fault?

Would he be afraid of her?

Soon.

All too soon.

She clutched her abdomen, wincing as the pull got worse.

It knew when there was the flavour of battle in the air, the aura of War. It hungered for it, the desire to kill and eat and tear a red blood-lust. She would soon be pulled under it, allowed to drown in its' turpentine waves of rage. It would be her moment to die once again, to lose herself until dawn came again and she maintained a fragile control over her body once more.

She again touched her label, her _tag_ that the man had decided to call her. Her _Codename._

  


Though she couldn't read, she knew what it said.

All the Collar stated in bold letters was _Project Gladstone._

  


****

“I said could you pass me a pen?”

Sherlock asked again, wondering what was taking John so long to comply with his request. Of course, at the moment John had just gotten back from his trip to the hospital, and was momentarily confused as he looked about the flat to see if it was maybe Mrs. Hudson had dropped by (hopefully if she had she left some sort of snack, because frankly John was _starving)._ However When he saw no one about, he realized what must've happened with a small smile.

  


“What? When?”

  


“About an hour ago.”

Sherlock replied, still staring at the photos before him with a prayer-like position to his hands as he stared hard at each piece of evidence before him. John sighed, secretly amused with his Chosen's antics. Probably more amused than he should be, if he was being honest with himself.

“Didn't notice I'd gone out then.”

  


Without even looking and using his internal radar for all things Sherlockian, John tossed the man his pen. The Detective caught it one-handed, eyes still trained on the code before him. John was privately suspicious that it wasn't a code at all.

He thought it might be Demon language, but how did one tell that to their flatmate without raising some pretty difficult questions?

A part of John still hoped that this was just a coincidence, that Van Coon had just _happened_ to be Demonic and that whatever Human had managed to kill him (because oh he hoped it was a _Human_ ) had just gotten lucky. His instincts however said otherwise.

  


“Yeah I went to see about a job at that surgery.”

  


“How was it?”

Sherlock asked, and the angel reflected for a moment on Sarah. She genuinely seemed like a nice person, and she had told him not to worry too much if he couldn't come in for work if his Chosen was in danger because she'd cover for him. She seemed to really understand where John's head was, and said that her Chosen Jenny had often driven her up the wall too with her crazy antics.

“ _She used to be a fire-fighter, drove me nuts with the rescues she'd pull. Now it's the depression that has me on the job. Decided to let me stay since I'd already gone through training.”_

  


He tried to keep his tone neutral, because he couldn't quite bring himself to sound entirely happy as he responded absently.

“It's great....She's..... great....”

  


Though John wasn't looking at him, Sherlock frowned. His tone came a little bit more sharp with an unidentifiable emotion even though his face remained carefully blank.

  


“Who?”

Realizing his mistake, John tried to salvage the conversation with a small white lie.

“The job.”

  


“ _She_?”

And Sherlock turned, regarding the man before him with suspicion and an unpleasant emotion tightening in his chest. John knew the Detective was incredibly possessive of things he perceived as his, and wasn't surprised that Sherlock gave him a look as if to say _This woman will have to be killed as soon as possible._

The angel just hoped it wasn't an actual option in his Chosen's mind as he'd actually like to have Sarah around if only to help him pretend to be a better Human. Still, the bad part of his mind is somewhat deliriously happy that the Detective looks as though he's bitten into a sour lemon.

Cringing, he corrected his sentence feebly, even though he could already feel the beginnings of a sulk bubbling in Sherlock's mind.

“..... _it._ ”

  


For a moment, Sherlock considered saying something. Perhaps he wanted to point out the line of tension in John's jaw, or the way he refused to look him directly in the eye as he spoke about a strange woman he had just met. Perhaps he wanted to say a lot of things, but the Detective jerked his head back to the photos and didn't offer further comment, only telling him that another murder had taken place.

  


Later on, John would look at the body and swallow, fear coursing down his spine. Even the subtle satisfaction in watching Dimmock eat his own words as Sherlock tore into him didn't abate the fear this time as he saw the body before him.

Another Demon lay before them on a slab, shot in the head by a weapon that could apparently murder those already technically dead.

It was beginning to look like a Cult had formed in London that wasn't just your typical street gang.

_Well...._

  


John sighed silently in resignation.

  


_At least this time I won't have Ghosts interrupting my sleep...._


	17. Tears Of The Nephilim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. I am so, SO sorry this took as long as it did. I had some major writer's block and was quite frankly having an emotional week. Lots of people I'm saying goodbye to since I'm moving, and I had a particularly bad case of dysphoria the past few days...
> 
> I didn't in the end finish the blind banker, but I hope you still enjoy! :3 
> 
> I will be in a corner dying now as I spent a long time panicking over how this should be....  
> Song is one thing by finger eleven. because I am stressed I will edit in the morning further...

 

 

  
_Restless tonight_   
_Cause I wasted the light_   
_Between both these times_   
_I drew a really thin line_   
_It’s nothing I planned_   
_And not that I can_   
_But you should be mine_   
_Across that line_

_If I traded it all_   
_If I gave it all away for one thing_   
_Just for one thing_   
_If I sorted it out_   
_If I knew all about this one thing_   
_Wouldn’t that be something?_

  
_Even though I know_   
_I don’t want to know_   
_Yeah I guess I know_   
_I just hate how it sounds_

 

 

“You're dealing with a killer that can climb.”

 

_Or y'know, fly...._

John thinks in his head as he watches Sherlock scour Lukis' flat, his lips pressed together tightly in silent stress as he feels with unease the Dark Magic floating clinging to his skin and clothes. That was the problem with dealing with a Demon's residence, if they stayed in once place too long things on the inside began to rot around them like a cold corpse. He can taste it, sulphuric and sour just underneath the deceptively warm walls of the flat, a lingering sort of distress as the air itself petrified. It was what sometimes made haunted houses, and this house did indeed have a sort of ghostly and spectral presence as they walked around, affecting both Sherlock's mood and Dimmock's and not for the better. They argued like cats and dogs.

 

“What are you _doing_?!”

The D.I spits venomously as he watcheds the Detective leap upon a pile of books, jiggling at the skylight with one arm in an attempt to open it. John watches from a safe distance, hoping to himself that he wouldn't be forced to catch the idiot if he fell or sprained something in the process of his antics. Beside him, Dimmock's angel (A determined, petite creature named Sansa) rolled her eyes and sighed audibly. The D.I is Buddhist, even though pacifism doesn't really seem to be part of his personality at the moment. About her neck she fiddles absently with a small jade figurine of the smiling deity even as she glares at John in reproach. It's clear she is silently demanding that the _AOD_ do something about his Chosen's distracted rambling, but John had to just grimace slightly and bear it as it was near impossible to stop Sherlock from going in convoluted and confusing circles once he had started.

 

“He clings to the walls....Like an _insect._ ” The Consulting Detective mutters to himself dramatically even as he busied himself, forcing the skylight open, letting bright sun stream down into the hallway in which they stood with a smile of triumph etched on his fingers. The Dark Energy appeared to be making Sherlock even more antsy than usual, because in the next instant he was hopping down from his precarious perch, directing his speech now to Dimmock openly.

“He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof and dropped in through the skylight.”

 

Dimmock's angel audibly groans, impatience turning her wings an irritated scarlet-orange like the inside of a grapefruit. Out loud, Dimmock scowls and his hands tighten like he would very much like to hit Sherlock Holmes. His voice rises in apparent disbelief.

 

“You're not _serious_. Like Spiderman?!”

John doesn't know who Spiderman is, but in Sherlock's mind he gets a sudden flash of an image of a man dressed in red and blue. The tail end of a theme song sings itself in an echoing way at the base of his skull.

_Is he strong? Listen bud... He's got radioactive blood...._

 

The angel suppresses a small smile that threatened to worm its way past his impassive exterior. Apparently, his Chosen hasn't been able to completely delete a certain Movie Marathon Lestrade had forced upon him. The memory makes John want to suddenly thank the D.I for having taken care of Sherlock during his absence, a guilty kind of emotion flickering through him briefly at the realization that he had barely tried to get to know Crow or his Chosen. He makes a mental promise to himself to get to know them better after this case, if all went well of course. The D.I and Sherlock continue to argue, the detective technically the correct one but both of them missing half the facts that couldn't be seen by normal eyes. In the end, Sherlock  storms off, picking up on the name of the library that Lukis had gone to right before he had died. John follows behind, sparing Sansa a brief look of apology. She scowls at him, but then her gaze softens into an almost longing expression that John couldn't entirely decipher as she waves him goodbye. It would only be later that the angel would realize she had been staring at Sherlock, who had been pulling John bodily along, his face alight with warmth and excitation for the prospect of new evidence. Had it really only been a little while ago, John wondered, when he had looked like that? Wanting to touch his Chosen but being unable to?

 

In any case he leans a little closer into the Detective's grasp, suddenly a thousand times more grateful for its solid feeling against his arm.

There are many things that many people take for granted, but John, John doesn't want this feeling to be one of them. Ever.

Because he never wants to one day look to Sherlock and ever see something that he feels he is owed, because John knows how easily it could all be taken away from him.

He wonders if on some subconscious level, his Chosen knows it too. Because he doesn't move until they are out of the cab, his hand on John's arm, neither leaning in or drawing away.

 

****

Many of Sherlock's Homeless Network are Nephilim. John knows this of course, since many of the children grew up without at least one parent, and that put the odds against them for a happy home life to begin with. Not that single parents didn't make happy homes every day, but coupled with the fact that a pure-blood Nephilim would be born without a Guardian Angel, there was really nothing stopping the person from being Claimed for Darkness. Or at the very least the morally grey area. However that does not stop John's discomfort that Sherlock feels the need to consult one, finding a character who called himself Raz around at the back of the National Gallery. He is a skinny kid, grinning and currently spray-painting the image of what looks to be the beginnings of some kind of Military-rebellion icon. John recognizes right away what he is for his lack of angel circling about him, and also notices the decidedly buzzed appearance about the man. Marks of an addict linger in the nervous drum of his fingers and dark eyes.

Sherlock speaks to him easily, as if he knows him fairly well.

“.....Interesting.”

 

Though he doesn't turn his head to acknowledge their arrival, the young man chuckles to himself and replies, shaking two cans of spray-paint in his hands so that the beads inside them click mechanically.

“I call it....Urban Blood-Lust Frenzy....”

 

His grin is cat-like and just a little feral as he spreads the black paint about the wall, writing his tag along the bottom of the mural. John clears his throat, not sure if he should be telling the young man off for vandalizing public property, or grudgingly admiring the fact that he does it so effortlessly and without a hint of panic in his bones. He settles for sarcasm.

“Catchy....”

 

The man turns to him then, eyebrows arching in surprise. John notices how his gaze flicks over him, looking pointedly at his wings with clear vision before a knowing smile crosses the man's features and he turns away. The angel swallows nervously. Pure-bloods could see creatures for what they truly were in a way that Humans rarely could. Their genes allowed them to see even an _AOD_ for its true form, Protective Magic unable to hide them from their sight since it was made only for Humans. John isn't exactly shocked that Raz can see him, instead he is more... unsettled. The look the young man gives him albeit briefly isn't exactly friendly. John supposes though that if anyone had an axe to grind with the Heavenly realm, it would be the forgotten and the damned. And the Nephilim are most certainly both, the by-product of the ultimate taboo. Fortunately, Sherlock doesn't seem to make anything of the look as Raz turns back to his mural. He looks again at the obvious thin line of the young man's form, hidden by layers of jackets but still not completely able to disguise that the boy hasn't had a good meal in probably quite awhile. Though his teeth aren't rotting, they aren't exactly clean either. His hair is dark and slightly greasy, but it isn't filthy. John feels some relief as he suspects that at the end of the day, the graffiti artist probably has _some_ place to go, even if he can't visit often.

 

“I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes 'round that corner.”

His rough accent holds preoccupation as he continues painting, even while turning to look at the Detective with an arched brow of amusement.

“Can we do this while I'm workin'?”

 

Sherlock obliges, showing the man the picture on his phone even as Raz tosses a can of paint into John's bewildered hands and takes a critical look. His dark brown gaze is intense as it flicks over the image, and the Detective rocks impatiently in place before he can't help himself but ask.

“Know the author.”

 

Slowly, Raz shakes his head no. However he speaks up anyway about something else.

“Recognize the paint. It's like Michigan. Hardcore repellant. I'd say.....zinc.”

 

“What about the symbols?” Sherlock presses, desperate now for some kind of clue. He frowns at the youth squinting at his phone. “Do you recognize them?”

Raz chuckles slightly, shaking his head in derision.

“Not even sure it's a proper language.”

Then he turns as if to go back to his painting. The detective growls lowly in his throat with impatience, grabbing his arm and pulling him closer so that the young man is forced to look him in the eye.

“Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the _key_ to finding out who killed him.”

The young man scowls, eyebrows rising upwards in disbelief. He shakes himself out of Sherlock's grip with a small snarl of contempt as he straightens.

“Yeah and people 'ave been goin' missin' for _months_ among my crowd and the police still haven' gotten 'round to it. This is all you've got to go on? It's not much is it?”

 

“Are you going to help us or _not_?” Sherlock shoots back, anger finally cracking over his features. The young man looks around uneasily, cornered under that stare and feeling the chill of it full-force. At first his jaw clenches in defiance, but then it slackens in resigned surrender.

“I'll ask around.” He murmurs finally, and that is as good as an answer as either man or angel get as in the next instant there is a shout, and Raz and Sherlock take off just as a Community Support Officer rounds the corner. John is left, holding the paint cans and wondering faintly just how many ways an angel can murder their Chosen without actually killing them as he tries in vain to explain to the tough-looking man before him why he _shouldn't_ be arrested for standing next to a painted wall with about a tonne of graffiti cans beside his feet.

 

****

“You're friend....”

“Listen: Whatever you say, I'm behind you one hundred percent.”

And at the moment, he is. He has just been given an ASBO, and Sherlock has barely even seemed to notice or care. John still fumes silently about it, hands tightening into fists as he silently thinks of ways to exact his revenge later on. Probably not the most angelic past-time, but it makes him feel marginally better about being treated like a dog sent on errands back and forth.

 

“....He's an arrogant sod.”

 

John blinks in surprise, genuinely shocked at the extreme understatement of the words that were just uttered to him. In the back-round, Sansa looks up from the pile of paperwork she has been analyzing, a small smirk curling her features so that her dark green eyes crinkle with amusement at the angels' shock. Dimmock looks up from his desk, smiling a little at John's evident surprise.

“Well, that was _mild!_ People usually say a lot worse than that....”

 

The angel suddenly wonders if he may have misjudged the man before him as in response he hands John the diary he has been looking for, a small grin quirking his normally bleak features. Feeling oddly embarrassed, he flushes and smiles back. Perhaps he hasn't given the stern D.I the best initial review, given the fact that he can tell the man is stressed with the workload since Lestrade's absence by the streaks of silver on his wings. Mentally, John promises to do something nice for the man, if only because he has accepted his wrongful brushing off of his Chosen with as much grace as he can.

 

Now, all he had to do was hide the diary from Sherlock's view. Because as he opens it, John sees to his grim confirmation words of the under-world bustling unseen under London's outer shell. Granted, Sherlock might just take it  to be the writings of a madman, but it would only take a small scratch to make the Detective curious. And if Sherlock Holmes began digging, he wouldn't rest until he found answers. And John shudders to think what Sherlock might think of him, if he turned around one day and realized that plain old John Watson was technically his insurance that he didn't die an early death.

 

He knows it is probably a bad sign that he has forgiven the crazy git already, just with those words.

Still, he doesn't want to know what it means, what his heart is trying to tell him.

If he looks at it too closely, he might shatter into pieces.

 

****

Chinatown is a strange place to John. It is almost like another world within the vast city of London, sprawling its way higgedly-piggedly in a sort of disorganized and yet interesting chaos. Upon arriving, there was a distinct change in smell of the air. Something salty and sweet and vaguely deep-fried reached the angel's tongue, and he inhales deeply in appreciation of it even as Sherlock is already bounding out of the cab and into the street. There is a kind of suspicious look that residents would give tourists as they milled about, their angels often dressed in traditional garb even while looking at him curiously from behind the wall of their fans and fruit vendors. It makes John feel not unlike an outsider even to his own kind as they approach The Lucky Cat, having been informed of Lukis' past whereabouts thanks to his diary (Which John told Sherlock about even while hiding the book just out of reach from his sticky fingers).

One thing that John notices immediately upon entering is the faintest edge of Dark Magic that immediately makes it difficult for him to enter. Like a brick wall, John finds himself suddenly physically ill, a dizzying sensation washing over him and making him gag. Then, quickly as it had come, it passes.

He swallows the bile that has risen to his throat and ignores Sherlock's curious glance, straightening and scowling.

 

A warning.

Nothing more, but still...

The fact that it encircled the store at all meant it was a fairly good lead, even if the angel can't exactly tell Sherlock its meaning.

 

Inside, both of them are assaulted by vivid shades of gold and red, painting the walls in gilded glamour. It's gaudy, cheap-looking and overly bright, and John squints against the glare as he stepps into the threshold of the store. He is confronted by an elderly woman behind the desk. She lifts up a figure of a golden cat eagerly towards them, an overly friendly smile plastered to her face as she speaks in broken English.

“You want lucky cat?”

 

Sherlock ignores her question, stalking about the expanse of the store like a tiger on the prowl. His blue-green eyes flick over the expanse of the shelves, mind humming and tracking the movement of the dozens of waving cats even while running over data in his head. John glances at him, hoping he won't have to interact, but when it's obvious that the detective isn't about to respond he rolls his shoulders slightly and smiles in a way that he hopes doesn't look _too_ awkward.

 

“No thanks... No.”

 

He makes as if to turn away, but her voice insistently calls him back.

Rising slightly in encouragement.

There is something in her tone that makes the angel tense slightly, turning to look at the woman more closely with sharper focus.

“Ten pound. Ten pound!”

 

John blinks, and for just a moment the woman's eyes flicker to pupiless black. He feels a chill run up his spine as he stares at her, and he takes a step back when a curling smile flashes across her features that is no longer just friendly. It is a knowing grin, one that is mocking and menacing. Sherlock's back is turned, but he hears the way John's voice grows firmer and deepens in what sounds almost like anger.

“No.”

 

“I think your wife, she will like!”

And when she says that, her eyes flick to his Chosen hungrily. The lights in the store shudder for just a moment, and John _sees._

He glimpses at the outlining of the creature's red-black wings, stretching bat-like behind her. Of the horns that crest the top of her scalp and the too-pale quality of her skin. His heart stutters in his chest, and he nearly leaps back in surprise. He is immediately in front of Sherlock, creating a discreet barrier between his Chosen and the Demon. John's breath is slow and smooth even as he laces a double meaning into his response.

 

“No, thank you.”

_If you touch him...._

 

Her upper lip curls, and that was the issue with Demons. They aren't after Humans, their weak energy unable to sate them like with _**Vampyres.**_ It is the angel of the Chosen that they are after, and as a result they are infinitely more dangerous. They also have a brain unlike a mindless succubus, and John finds proof in this fact as the woman smiles again and looks back to her counter. If they had come at night, perhaps she might have acted on her hunger. However outside there are hundreds of people milling about, not to mention the fact that John is an _AOD._

If anything happened to John, the detective would see it.

 

So even though the angel's nerves scream at him to turn and barrel into Sherlock, to shove him out of the shop and get him as far away as possible from the monster behind them, he stills. Silently, he forces his expression into a semblance of awkward calm in time for the detective to turn and glance at him. Judging by the way his eyes slide over John's features, he guesses he did a good enough job. Or maybe Sherlock is just too distracted to notice. John makes a show of stepping over to the rows of glinting china on the wooden shelves on the far side of the shop. He does not intend to find anything to do with the case as he flips over a porcelain cup lined with blue hydrangeas. Yet staring before him in sudden clarity in jagged handwriting issomething that makes his jaw fall open.

He calls to Sherlock before he even realizes what he is doing.

 

“The label there.”

His Chosen's eyes spark as he looks down at John's hands, lips pursing in fascination as something clicks in his mind that John can't yet see. His voice is low to keep the woman from overhearing them, but it holds a gravity to it that is unmistakable.

 

“Yes, I see it.”

 

“ _Exactly_ the same as the cipher.”

John feels the need to say, though he knows Sherlock will probably find his response redundant. He stares at the cup, hardly believing that he had been wrong. So it _hadn't_ been some kind of strange Demon-language after all. It is an actual code. A clue.

If they're using the numerical system to _sell_ to Humans, so it has to be in a language some Humans could actually understand.

He hadn't seen that before, but he does now.

And from the look on his Chosen's face, it is clear that Sherlock now knew exactly what the code was. Before John could blink twice he is gone from the shop, coattails whirling out behind him as the spins about and pushes open the shop door. The bell chimes loudly against the glass after his absence.

 

Before John can leave, the old woman behind the counter speaks softly. Her voice is a callous hiss.

“Be careful where you tread little _Seraph_ , or you might find more than you bargained for. Chinatown has many secrets in its homes.”

 

****

She saw them walking down the street, weaving through Humans and angels alike. In the crowd, she remains invisible to their sight as she looks about her and scents the air. The atmosphere is rich with the frenzied life-force of mortal vitality as people shuffle around her. She is sure their boring little minds barely notice the cold chill they get as they pass her standing on the curb, their dull minds unable to see her true form. Then again, the Spell helps with that too. Not even angels can see her wings, her form shadowy and two-dimensional. Like a shade that should seem solid but isn't. She is of this world and yet did not quite fit in the jagged pieces, like she is part of a different puzzle and yet fit the space well enough that no one questioned it.

 

She lifts her camera phone towards the figure of the angel her employer had wanted, towards the man who didn't even realize that his Guardian stood by his side. The shutter clicks mechanically as she catches the image of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, her phone revealing what other cannot see. The outline of two powerful blue-green wings shimmering out from the angel's back, twitching with carefully concealed strength. A wolf hidden in sheep's clothing, and extremely unassuming clothes at that. To an average observer, JohnWatson is ordinary. Plain. He is a little bit shorter than average and his muscles can be mistaken for just stockiness. Yes, in some ways, the Demon isn't surprised that her employer has no interest in him.

He is boring.

Uninteresting.

 

Yet he is the key to the far more _fascinating_ man leaving his side.

And hopefully, the key to the true target that this elaborate Game is all about. She licks her lips hungrily, grinning in anticipation. With a snap of her fingers she is invisible, a shadow along the pavement making their way to an unknown destination.

 

Shan could hardly wait.

 

****

Sherlock does not normally enjoy interacting with people. It is not something he actively seeks, and there is no comfort for him to find putting up with people's idiocy in general. There are a few exceptions of course, John being one of them. Mrs. Hudson for various reasons, another. Even Mycroft, as much as the detective is loathe to admit that his fat git of a brother makes it to his small book of confidants. To the best of his abilities, he does his utmost to ensure that the people who make his private list were as close as he could have them without totally letting them in. That is to say, he did his damnedest to appear aloof without being cold towards them. He makes sure to show them that he cared without ever showing them just how _deeply_ his feelings run, because he is fairly certain that they wouldn't understand the level of intense.... _possessiveness_ he felt over the people who did not cast him aside. The people who did not mock him, who picked him up when his mind threatened to tear itself apart or when he failed at reading some invisible social cue. Sherlock is positive that there isn't anyone who entirely felt the same level of gratitude towards their small group of friends. He is also fairly sure that they didn't feel his fear at losing them.

 

But perhaps that is just because they have no idea, how very simple it can be to utterly destroy a Human being with the slightest of effort.

 

Sherlock knows. He can read blood and bones, translate scars and stitches like script on parchment. He is aware of how in the blink of an eye, a situation can change. How the ground that had once seemed so solid could shift, leaving you stumbling and falling flat on your face. How you can find yourself tumbling into a steep abyss of emotion if you couldn't keep yourself out of the complicated and unfair Game of love and hate. How badly you can end up being burned by it. He has witnessed it, third degree scorches evident in a victim's eyes by their tears and by their testimonies. He has experienced it, and the scars still glisten silver in his mind.

How many times has he witnessed love drive someone to do something incredibly vile and inhuman in nature?

Hate could make a man bleed, but love could make him stop breathing all together. It is a vicious, vital motivator, and Sherlock refuses to play to its whims any more. He is past that, has recovered from his own scars and burns, though they stand shiny and stark on his heart for those that only cared to look. Tainting him.

And he made sure that those he cared about remained as untainted as he could.

He protected Mrs. Hudson.

Cautioned his brother in his affairs.

Warned Lestrade that his secrets were never hidden from his eyes.

And he planned to break the hearts of John's dates for him so he didn't have to himself.

 

It was easy, and he'd do the same to Sarah, when the time came.

He knows most would view it as selfish, but he doesn't care what others think. As far as he is concerned, he'd play the bad guy if he has to. If only to save someone else's heart.

And when he breathes, if he still felt the ghost of a pair of lips on his forehead, then that was his own scar to bear for his discretion.

He is no saint.

 

There is no innocence in his Games. He is selfish. So very, very selfish for wanting the people that are his to remain with him.

To not want them to leave.

He is selfish, for wanting that strangely innocent spark in John's eyes to remain clear and bright.

And he is atrociously greedy, to have dark moments where he contemplates the act of stealing that light for himself in the late hours of the night.

 

And yet, he would trade it all just for that. Throw caution to the wind if he could gain permission to cup that light in his hands and keep it close to him. Trade it for just that single promise.

He'd risk getting burned, if he could know he'd be able to keep that light with him. If his vow would be guaranteed to be reciprocated. He'd almost be willing to try again.

If he wasn't so certain that his clumsy hands would break it if he dared to touch.

 

****

A smuggling ring.

In hindsight, it was obvious. Sherlock can scarcely believe he hasn't seen it earlier. Business men all the time went to foreign countries, giving them the perfect excuses for such a job. Lukis had been the same, being a journalist. Whatever was in those vials that the detective had filched, he is certain now more than ever that they were drugs. It is the only explanation. The question was what _kind_ of drug, because he has never seen the nearly translucent gold liquid before. Sherlock has a long list of things he is quite knowledgeable of, and one of them whether fortunately or unfortunately was the mental notebook of drugs he can name by sight alone. He currently has them hidden away in a drawer back at the flat, but soon he'd have to ask Molly to let him borrow the lab. The thought makes his nose crinkle in slight distaste, quietly wincing at the future awkwardness that would ensue. There is no helping it. Even though he doesn't understand the absurd crush the little mousey-haired girl had on him, he'd just have to grin and bear it.

The case was more important.

 

****

They arrive at Soo Lin's apartment, the clue of a soaked phone book and a rather distressed note from a coworker lending enough suspicion that Sherlock feels he is justified in breaking into the woman's flat. However John soon discovers that when Sherlock has his mind focused on any act of danger, the man had a tendency to not bother to notice little things around him.

 

Like how John was too short to reach the metal ladder that Sherlock used to clamber up to the window. For a moment the angel merely stood and stared up at the retreating coat that was already disappearing into the building, his blue eyes narrowing in exasperation as he realized that he couldn't very well just _fly_ to Sherlock's side.

And for a second, all the Guardian could think was:

_You've **got** to be kidding me._

 

And then he closes his eyes, and felt Dark Magic lingering in the premises of the building. Which not only makes John swear, but seriously consider in that moment saying to hell with it and tearing in after the detective. He looks about desperately, feeling like a second heartbeat in his ears the presence of something dark in the flat. A nervous tongue darts from between his lips, and his hands clench tightly. Father would be furious.

He might even decide that John had blown it. That he was panicking prematurely and refusing to think up another solution. He hesitates on the balls of his feet, wings quivering in indecision. If he was sent back, Sherlock would never know what happened. He would either be forced to forget or John would just vanish, and the detective would never find him. John can feel fear crawling like a spider along his neck, and he knows that if his senses are right, Sherlock will not be able to defend himself.

 

The violent scream of pain that rips through his mind abruptly makes his heartbeat stutter and stop. Wings unfurling in the filthy alley, John does the only thing he could think of.

The only option.

He flies.

Because in the end, it will always be Sherlock before his own happiness. He isn't so far gone that the base instinct of an angel has left him completely.

And standing unseen in the shadows, a cat-like grin flashes silver-white in approval of his actions, fading as quickly as it had come into the brick-work.

 

****

The flat is small and delicate-looking. When Sherlock steps through the window, that is his first impression. That everything is compact and fragile, just like the vase he very nearly tips over upon his entrance. Orderly and neat.

His blue-green eyes narrow as they sweep over the room, eyebrows lowering in confirmation of his suspicion. Yes, the floor is clear, and there's no excess dirt or filth. A stereotype perhaps, but it holds a woman's atmosphere to it. There is a certain aura about it that is floral and sweet, if a little bit neglected. Sherlock also notices the small circle of water on the carpet, drying already beside the stain he'd made. It confirms his suspicions, that someone is offing the smugglers because one of them has stolen something of value. That and they were quite possibly acrobatic, as they had managed so far to scale tall buildings without the slightest problem whatsoever.

 

He feels the fabric of the cotton dress hanging on the ironing board, searching for any semblance of warmth. Stone cold on his fingertips. Hasn't been worn in a while then. Stalking past the beaded curtains, he ducks his head into the fridge. The milk jug when he opens it there's a foul scent emitting from it that makes him gag and wince.

Then he notices the picture frame.

 

Pausing, he straightens and creeps cautiously towards the mantle, noticing the fresh pair of fingerprints against the glass of the image. It is a normal enough picture, but something about it seems.... off.

Two children sit side by side, staring into the camera with wide eyes. One is a little girl, probably only seven at most, her round face peering into the camera contemplatively. The other was a boy, older. His face is very serious in the image, not a trace of a smile on his features. In fact, the girl isn't grinning either. They are both cold as they stare into the camera, and they hold with them a certain greyness that can't be dispelled even though the image is in colour. The image itself seems strange, as they were dressed in very old fashioned clothes and yet the picture is on modern film. A festival perhaps? Sherlock peers at it closely, unable to quite tear his gaze away from the sadness and fear in both of the children's expressions. Evident even through the lens of a camera. Whoever was on the other side of the lens, they did not trust. They feared.

Then he looks to the floor and notices the footprints.

 

“Size eight feet..... Small....but athletic....”

He muses under his breath, careful not to rub out the indent of the footprints with his own steps lest they be needed later for evidence. His magnifying glass makes each outline larger, the little details of the make of the shoe coming to life under the zooming in of the lens.

 

“Our acrobat.”

His mind flashes to the boy in the picture, and it clicks together so quickly that his eyes flutter shut in the shock of it. Of course.

It made _sense._

The puzzle is finally starting to have sustenance, to come together and become something _sensible._ Sherlock revels in the sensation of it for just a moment, smiling briefly. He doesn't notice the flickering shadow behind him because of it. Nor did he bother to realize that John isn't right behind him like he always was. He has become so used to the man's presence, that it didn't occur to him for some reason that John _wouldn't_ be behind him.

 

So when he's suddenly being choked to death by an unseen figure, a second passes where Sherlock's mind went virtually white with shock.

 

Then he is scrabbling for purchase around him, his air supply cut off in a flash. He struggles viciously, hands coming to grip the rag surrounding his neck, his mind instinctively crying out even as he lets out a strangled shout.

 

“John!”

 

Behind him, he can hear a strange sort of hissing, a clicking kind of noise that sounds at once both predatory and terrifying. Like the sounds of a wild animal. His vision clouds as he is dragged backwards, his feet pulling against the carpet as he fights against the strong arms pinning his throat closed. It's a burning sensation, being strangled. It makes Sherlock's head fill with fire as if in his mind's desperation for air it's self-combusting. Lighting itself aflame, his thoughts swirl in his head and dissolve into a single thought:

Survival.

Using all of the strength he can muster, he tries to flip the man over so he is no longer pinning him to the ground. However the strength of the acrobat is something Sherlock wasn't expecting. He is met with a solid blow to his gut that sends stars exploding in front of his eyes, and he retches silently as he sinks unwillingly to his knees. Everything is turning a hazy red colour, and soon his lungs are heaving for air uncontrollably. He feels himself being lowered to the ground, and hears as if from underwater a deep snarling voice.

 

“ _Let this be a message to not get any closer to this case.”_

 

And in that moment, there's mighty shattering of glass, and Sherlock's world does dark. just as he is about to lose conciousness, he hears a familiar voice shout his name louder than he thought could be possible.

It is a roar almost as loud as the white noise rushing to meet him.

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

****

John barrels through the window, sending glass exploding over him like hundreds of stinging wasps on his skin as he tumbles forward. The vase, having already been knocked over twice shatters entirely, pieces scattering about his feet as he snarls savagely over what he sees. He took all but a second to glance at the outline of the Demon's form, and then his heart froze in his chest.

 

 

Sherlock.

Lying on the floor.

Looking for all the world like he was dead.

 

Before John knew what he was doing, he lunged at the winged monster, a cry already working past his lips.

 

And that is when he realizes that sometimes, protective duty and blind emotion could be one in the same.

 

The Demon vanishes like smoke in the air just before he reaches him. His fingers feel the brush of fabric for the barest of breaths.

And John finds himself cradling Sherlock's unconscious form to his chest, vowing unholy murder on anyone who ever marked the pale expanse of his throat with red ever again.

 

****

Sherlock drifts. His mind is floating along an unknown sea, the water tepid and grey. Tinges of colour ripple through it occasionally, creating silvery paths that he doesn't know where they lead. He is a boat in the centre of a lake, sailing along in no particular direction. No oar and no sail adorns his ship, and it's really more of a canoe. Still, images float just underneath the surface of the water like fish, swimming past him.

Memories.

 

Images at once both familiar and strange. His Mother making breakfast. His brother scolding him for climbing a tree. Swirling contents of John making tea and John scowling and John grinning and John-

 

Victor.

His smile, cold and edged but soft at the middle, like it was liable to turn into a quivering sob at any time. Light blue eyes, bright and fierce and passionate only to turn blank.

Water.

Cold and icy.

Falling.

Down, down, _down._

 

He fights against the sensation, gasping for breath.

 

Then numbness.

The feeling of needles pricking his arms. The haze of drug-induced euphoria, temporarily chasing away the screaming in his head. The sensitivity to everything. The need to _move._

Lestrade's face above him, slapping him into some sense of consciousness.

Telling him to hold on.

 

_Hold on to what?_

 

Those chocolate brown eyes melting into cobalt blue, silver hair sprouting into blonde. A warm smile, acknowledging so much and yet so reserved. Filled with so many secrets that were hidden under a facade of open truth.

John.

Hold onto John.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, it is to find his head in the good doctor's lap, and his air blessedly returned to him.

 

He doesn't question the hallucination he had before his vision cleared, blaming it on sentiment.

For a moment, he had looked up, and seen two great wings sprouting from the blonde man's back. Shielding the two of them on the swept floor of Soo lin's flat.

 

John is twirling a single paper lotus in his hands.

It is as black as midnight, and just like the others.

The detective could've imagined it, but he swore he heard John whisper

“I almost lost you.”

Before he opens his eyes.

 

****

Molly is more than willing to let Sherlock use the lab for his experiments. John, unwilling to let Sherlock out of his sight since the incident at the flat, follows without protest. At first he had wanted to drag the detective to the ER to get his throat checked out, but Sherlock had forcefully insisted that he was fine. The lab is a cool and sterile place, and his buzzing thoughts feel like an unwelcome intruder even as he pulls up a stool and sets out to work.

 

The angel sighs, looking at his Chosen regretfully. Today had been _way_ too close. His very bones felt exhausted from exertion, and there is no way he is getting any sleep tonight, if Sherlock's manic energy is any indication. It would be another restless evening of pacing then, coupled wiht stressed violin. Lovely.

Rubbing at his eyes, he pulls up his own stool and watches as those pale hands flutter over the samples he had 'acquired' from Van Coon's flat. He shakes the tubes' contents briefly before adjusting the microscope so it would be at a good magnification to start off with. Restlessness getting to him, John twitchs his wings. He is surprised when for a moment, Sherlock's gaze flicks in his direction. Automatically he stills, and his Chosen's gaze slides over him without comment. John wonders if Sherlock is even aware he did it.

 

The detective wordlessly begins.

 

****

 

_It makes no sense._

John realizes he has fallen asleep when he is woken by that thought. He starts sleepily, yawning and asking blearily while rubbing at his eyes.

“What makes no sense?”

 

Sherlock notes that he had never actually said anything out loud, but answers anyway. He is far too distracted by the evidence before him, silently wondering how he could make the same mistake _five times._ After all, this DNA scan....

It was _impossible._

 

John senses the direction his thoughts have taken and straightens, silent panic squeezing his chest. His voice is suddenly sober and serious as he speaks.

“What's wrong?”

 

His Chosen grips his raven curls and scratches at them like he might like to pluck them out one by one. Scowling darkly, he folds his hands to his lips in thought. When he speaks his tone is still rough, though whether it's from strangulation or stress John can't be entirely sure.

 

“These _results!_ They're humanly impossible!”

 

He holds up one of the tubes of gold-clear liquid, shaking its contents angrily.

“According to the tests I could tell it was organic in nature, so naturally I considered the possibility of the liquid coming from a living source. So I did some analysis and the closest thing that it matches is Human tears. Except they're _not._ They're much more. I tested its qualities and it _heals_ things at a remarkable rate. To the point where it seems to almost _reverse_ time. It's _inconceivable_ the possibilities it could bring to modern medicine and yet I've never seen it before in my life! ”

 

He holds up the slide, letting the liquid glint gold. John's throat is suddenly dry, and he has to struggle not to clench his hands into fists. When he speaks, his voice to his horror cracks. Sherlock doesn't appear to notice.

“What is it then?”

 

“That's just it! _Half_ of it is Human DNA! Nothing special! But the other half...”

He scowls, bracing his arms against the counter and staring at something in his Mind-Palace in silent fury. When he speaks, his voice is soft and lost. Deathly so.

 

“It's.... Human but not.... it's.....something.... something _new._ ”

 

And John, realizing the only time he had seen golden tears had been when they were streaming down his own face in _**Scheol,**_ swallows and looks away.

Because Sherlock Holmes has just accidentally stumbled upon something so huge, even his brain might not be able to wrap around it.

 

A Demon drug ring. Selling _angel_ abilities by using Nephilim DNA.

If it is real, angel tears were going to be the _least_ of their problems.


	18. A Heart in Someone's Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I'm baaaack! :P thought you could get rid of me? pssh.  
> XP so, I'm officially off hiatus as of tonight (my time tonight anyway) and will hopefully have some more frequent updating in the near future ;P
> 
> London is absolutely incredible, and I got the see the actual Sherlock museum *dies* Just. UGH.  
> can't.  
> any who. enough shameless boasting.....
> 
> *coughs*  
> I now also have a beta for this piece! so things should now be edited! as well, I have decided to switch tenses with this story, and will be making appropriate changes to the chapters beforehand as a result (albeit slowly). I just feel it will be an easier read this way...
> 
> Thanks to my fantastic beta Iolre! Right now she is literally my deity XD 
> 
> This is the end of the blind banker! and next will be the Great Game where things get if possible, even more complicated XD  
> song is hold our hand by the beatles, but I personally think of the Across the Universe version when I think of this chapter :3 
> 
> enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
_Oh please, say to me_   
_You'll let me be your man_   
_And please, say to me_   
_You'll let me hold your hand_   
_I'll let me hold your hand_   
_I wanna hold your hand_

_And when I touch you I feel happy_   
_Inside_   
_It's such a feeling that my love_   
_I can't hide_   
_I can't hide_   
_I can't hide_

 

There was a noise. She could hear it, if she strained. Just soft enough to be almost imagined. Yet Soo Lin was immediately wide awake. Her eyes were dark and glittered coldly as she silently rose from her bed, skin pale like a sheet as she noticed that her arms were laced with goosebumps. A breeze wafted through the front window, lace curtains pulling and drifting with its force as the kiss of wind fluttered over her cheeks. It did not soothe her, rather her upper lip curled to reveal inhumanly sharp teeth.

She hadn't left the window open last night.

 

In an instant, she was on her feet, padding silently along the soft carpet of the floor. Her feet made soft imprints behind her, small feet that did not convey the hidden strength in her legs and torso. Her wings slowly stretched out behind her, smoky black and bat-like in the dark of night, blocking out even the suggestion of the fading stars outside. Carefully, she  lifted her head and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring to take in the unfamiliar scent lingering in her home as an intruder. She tasted on her tongue the sharp smell of gardenias and chai tea, the pastel-like flavour of red lipstick and expensive make-up. Her upper lip curled in distaste, eyes narrowing as her voice called out to the hidden shadow lurking in the hall.

“I would appreciate it if next time you knocked. What, has your precious overlord finally gotten bored, toying with my life?”

 

A pair of golden eyes blinked open in the dark, glittering low to the ground at first but rising as the hulking, furred creature rose on hind legs and bent to a Human form. Gladstone's voice was quiet as she stepped into the moonlight streaming through the window, bare form shining softly under the pale illumination, the colour of a desert land.

Her voice was a low, rich drawl, not quite avoiding a rumbling growl.

 

“My Master requires your assistance,” she murmured, kneeling on the floor with a sweeping bow that made the dark cascade of her hair fall over her shoulders, covering her in long waves.

 

Soo Lin snorted, crossing her arms in front of her chest before stalking past the shadowy young girl before her, grabbing the dressing gown that hung from the corner of her desk and tossing it in her direction. The were-child caught it without preamble, shrugging it onto her shoulders with fluid ease. Moving her hair away from the ties, her collar glinted as silver-gold as her calculating look. The Demon tried to pretend she wasn't slightly unnerved by that stare. Like it wasn't boring into her chest and leaving her feel like a rotten pumpkin, hollow and maggot-filled inside.

 

“What makes him think I would be willing to help him? Hmm? Sympathy for the Devil has never exactly been my forte, considering all he's done to me in the past. What he ~~'s~~ did to my _family._ ”

She spat the last word, pointed teeth glittering in the dark, but the footsoldier didn't flinch. She kept a decidedly neutral countenance, offering the catch to her visit up to her in a deadly flat voice.

 

“He is offering... a substantial award.... for your aid in this issue....”

 

“I've been banished from The Black Lotus Gang, I'm a fugitive, living as a rogue. What can the King Of Hell possibly offer when I've lost everything already, and have nothing more to gain?” The Demon reared indignantly, straightening to her full height and hissing menacingly.

 

Gladstone thought her eyes were like twin moons covered by an eclipse. Dark and deep and endless. She had never seen eyes so bottomless before, night echoing in their hue. When she responded her words were careful. Cautious. Yet she saw a silver spark in those depths, like a firework threatening  to explode over the horizon.

 

“He's offering you your heart.”

 

Soo Lin felt her world drop out from under her. And very suddenly, she looked not like a Demon, but very much like a little girl who had just watched her entire world come apart like a tower of blocks struck down by negligent hands.

 

****

When she had been small, she had watched her Mother and her brother sit side-by-side on the rough-hewn floor of their small home, curled by the hearth in their one-room living residence. She'd be forced to be quiet, sitting as she looked on to observe her Mother's delicate hands, stitching together pieces of fabric with elegant ease. The needle would flash silver in the dark, glimmering like a firefly as she'd curl her knees to her chest and pretend like she wasn't hungry. Still, her stomach would grumble, prod at her like a wounded bear. She hated it, the constant ache of never having enough to eat. A hollow emptiness, echoing dully just below the rhythm of her heartbeat in her ears. If she lay on her brother's stomach, sometimes she could hear it, a reflection of the growling creature that lived in both of their guts and demanded payment in full.

 

It was a demon, a black and faceless creature that called for sacrifice for many of the people in her village. It took its payment in the increasing visibility of ribs, in the slimming of waists and the gaunt expression it left in people's eyes. Her Mother had that face, the one that was defeated by the hunger. Soo Lin had only ever known it. She could not remember a time when it _hadn't_ existed. She was always hungry, and so was her brother. A constant, in a time period hundreds of years past, where Emperor's did not feed their citizens and even farmers, who were supposed to be able to create food from the ground, were unable to eat. The world was smoke and industrialization, and yet it was also poverty. The streets were filled with crime, families kept safe only by bribing the Tong with what meagre money they could scrounge. Those that couldn't manage worked for them.

 

She could remember being worried as she stared at the flickering hearth, thinking about the oncoming winter. It had filled her with fear, the long cold months ahead and her Mother's frail health. Little did she know then that it wouldn't be the cold that brought her world crashing to a halt. It would not be sickness or freezing numbness that would pull her and her brother into Hell.

 

It would be a mugging, in which her Mother would be robbed of the silk garment she had made especially for her little girl, ~~the woman~~ left to bleed out on the streets while her two children waited anxiously in the dark of night for her to return. She never would, but someone else would soon arrive. When her brother Liang got desperate.

When he saw how Soo Lin would not make the winter.

 

When he looked at his own reflection in the pool of water he fetched to boil and saw that neither would he.

 

To trade a heart hadn't seemed like a huge thing, when it was already breaking at the sight of what little family you have left starving before you.

 

****

There was rumour of a _**Shadow Man.**_ The one who lived in the darkness of the shadows of the walls when they stretched, long and eerie at sunset. A whisper of a being, another Emperor that had followers that hid in the daylight with bright smiles even while concealing poisoned daggers under their sleeves. A master of mystery, cloaked in the dense air that lingered heavy from people smoking cheap tobacco. Starless nights hid the exchange of thousands of pounds of drugs, sent to trade with the white man, strange foreigners who speak strange tongues and dress differently. Not that she's ever seen them before. He bore no name, for how could one name an _idea?_

How could one describe a man with no face, and no real name? A person who sat like a spider in the centre of a massive web, pulling strings like delicate threads to affect the world around him?

A whisper.

The Demon.

The Spider.

_**Zhi Zhu.** _

 

Like flies, they fell into his trap. It was impossible not to.

For no one could deny the Devil when he came knocking on your door. Even if at the time, you were unaware of his true form, masked by insincere smiles and false courtesy.

Like waltzing with smoke, unaware of the roaring fire that lurked just around the corner.

 

****

John ducked away just in time to avoid getting smacked in the face by the whirl of Sherlock's coat, the detective's eyes glittering with the spark of savage determination that the angel knew to mean that he was close to solving the heart of the case. As it was, he had gotten thoroughly fed up in the lab, his mind running in endless circles and leaving John thoroughly dizzy before the detective had leapt to his feet, shouting _“I need more data!”_ At the top of his lungs. Then he had whirled out of the room, nearly knocking over poor Molly in his haste to get to the museum to try and see if he could talk to someone.

 

He hadn't been disappointed.

Andy, though somewhat shy and pathetic, had proven himself to be more than useful.

Though John saw how his angel had cowered at the mere mention of the missing woman's name.

 

“We _have_ to get to Soo Lin Yao!”

Sherlock scowled, feeling as if he were running on a wild goose chase and going nowhere. His collar flipped up to hide the frown that was making its way to his lips. He fell again to the contemplation of the vials back at the lab. They rattled his Mind-Palace, causing upheaval as things rearranged themselves into new drawers, rifling themselves into new order with new information. That something that should be wasn't, something that should fall out in one result abruptly twisting around in such a way that left the detective feeling uncomfortably blindsided. It was a sensation he was unused to, and John's wings rolled a myriad of different colours at the unsettling emotion.

Confusion.

Something Sherlock had never handled well, at least not when it wasn't over something clever. This was simple _chemistry_ , something that should have been logical. And yet it was like he had taken a step down familiar steps only to find the floor give out from under him. John could feel that great mind whirling, desperate to make the world make sense again.

 

They had eventually given the samples to Molly for further inspection (under strict secrecy mind), although John knew that chances were the blushing Human would get the same result.

An answer that raised only more questions.

But the angel couldn't dwell on what Molly might do in response to her findings, because his mind was much more focused on the task at hand:

Demons.

The word alone sent his upper lip curling in distaste. Apparently, Heaven must have been having some kind of national crisis, because no matter who he called he was left with a mental block of silence. His Father hadn't given him a remotely straight answer since this whole case began, and he was truthfully starting to become a little worried and more than slightly fed up. Though he didn't expect to be answered straight away, John would have at least appreciated the few times God had come down to visit him more if the man hadn't been so bloody obtuse and vague.

 

“If she's still alive.”

John's placid response only seemed to agitate Sherlock further, his Mind-Palace verbally skinning the angel alive with a few unsaid acerbic responses. He just counted himself rather lucky that his Chosen was too distracted to vocalize his discontent with the world around him as a familiar prickling at the back of John's neck alerted him to Raz's presence approaching behind them.

 

The youth sidled up to them energetically, eyes alert and shining from inside the dark circles that ringed them. His hands shook slightly, as if he were suffered from mild nicotine withdrawal as he called out to Sherlock's retreating back.

“Sherlock!”

 

“Oh, look who it is.”

John muttered under his breath, not expecting to be acknowledged. To his surprise, Raz gave a small pause of what seemed to be intense scrutiny, small brown eyes narrowing before he tugged on the detective's sleeve in a leading gesture. He seemed thinner in John's eyes, and the young man's gaze darted about nervously as if he suspected he was being watched before he moved them along. His words promised the lead that Sherlock had been desperately awaiting, something new to distract him from the unsolvable problem of the Nephilim Tears. The two of them ran after the skinny homeless kid, just as interested in solving the case as they were from keeping Sherlock's head from exploding with impatience.

 

“Found something you'll like.”

 

****

Angels of teenagers are often slightly waspish creatures. Having to deal with their Chosen's constant influx of emotionally-fuelled hormones often made them impatient and irritable, having to endure it as the soul they were Bonded to broke down and reconstructed itself on a daily basis, searching for a new identity. They had to deal with great depths of depression, staggering heights of euphoria, and love that was as powerful as it was fickle every minute. It was no surprise to John that the highest suicide rate belonged to Humans forced into a war-zone everyday inside their own heads. Even though angels were omniscient, they could only take so much damage before they too could feel a temptation to self-destruct. Still, angels at this age were in some ways the most beautiful of his kind, as their wings were just starting to take on colours that would last with them forever.

 

Feathers tinted brilliant magenta and gold, dazzling in the sunlight next to emerald greens the colour of radioactive waste. Acid-reds and sky-soft blues, all mottled together like a spray-painted mural coating each angular wing-tip. Angels of all kinds swooped and flipped around the bikes and skateboards of their Chose narrowly avoiding smashing into the concrete jungle that was the skate-park by completing minute swerves that left John feeling nauseous just watching. Raz wove around both Human and angel alike effortlessly, seeming focused solely on the writing that painted the concrete walls of the park in the shadow of the cavern-like under-croft.

Sherlock's blue eyes bright in the shade, he murmured to John under his breath what he seemed to have already figured out.

 

“If you want to hide a tree in the middle of a forest, this is the best place to do it. Wouldn't you say? People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message.”

 

Mentally, a single world blossomed from the chaos of his mind rapidly putting two and two together.

_Brilliant._

 

Raz pointed to a spot of yellow paint, which upon closer inspection appeared to be a partially covered Chinese character. John began to notice that all around them, little flashes of neon hue appeared. Hidden, but visible for those with an eye that cared to look.

 

“There. I spotted it earlier.”

He flicked a furtive glance to John then, seeming to try and pass something on with his eyes alone. The angel didn't understand, eyebrows lowering in confusion. However Raz was already looking away, watching Sherlock intently as the detective leaned forward to get a better look at the evidence before him. His deep baritone rumbled in excitement.

 

“They _have_ been in here. This is the exact same paint?”

The young man nodded his affirmation, jaw set in certainty.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sherlock straightened, mind already jumping ahead to the next task at hand. The mechanics in his brain where whirring away to the final confrontation.

 

“John, if we're going to decipher this, we're going to need to look for more evidence.”

 

The detective was about to whirl away again when Raz cleared his throat, staring at his shoes uncomfortably before darting another look at John. Sherlock paused, looking at the homeless youth in confusion as the Nephilim squared his shoulders, gathering the courage to speak directly to the angel before him.

“I need t' talk with you. Alone.”

 

At Sherlock's suspicious look of incredulity, the homeless youth continued to speak hurriedly.

“It's about that um, that ASBO. I feel like I should do somethin' 'bout it.... Take a walk with me?”

 

For a split second John felt a deep, possessive pull linger in his gut, and it took him a moment to realize it was not his own. His Chosen's face was carefully blank, but the angel could feel the reluctance to let John out of his sight. However as soon as the emotion surfaced, it was abruptly crushed and tucked away. Sherlock's voice was flippant as he waved his hand as if to bestow permission (which normally would piss John off but he was too busy reeling from the potency of the emotions hiding just under the surface of his Chosen's facade).

“We have a few moments I suppose. If we really must be so boring.”

 

John, unable to shake the seriousness in Raz's eyes, had no choice but to follow the young man a little ways away towards the back of the tunnel. Even rounding a corner felt distinctly wrong to John, Sherlock no longer in his direct vision. He tried not to chafe too much as the young man turned to regard him intently, dark eyes holding a sudden exhaustion that the angel realized he had been masking up until now. He slumped, like his spine couldn't be held together any longer and he was looking into the face of death.

Raz's voice was as ragged as the edge of a dulled blade.

 

“You have to help us. I don' know who else t' turn to at this point.”

Biting his lip,  he ran a hand over his face as if it physically pained him to admit this kind of defeat. He glared hatefully at John, gritting his teeth suppressed irritation.

 

“Things are happening..... Happening to people like, like me.”

Raz swallowed, the physical action causing his Adam's apple to bob up and down reflexively. His eyes seemed much too dark and much too large in his pale face as he wringed his hands, a nervous habit that was probably once from adults telling him off in grade school.

 

“What do you expect _me_ to do?”

John asked coolly, doubting that this was just a simple discussion of life for the homeless network. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, unconsciously picking up on the unsettled emotions that Sherlock was radiating in waves. In the back of his mind was the black lotus and the warning the Demon had given him, and he found himself reluctant to delve any deeper into the hole they were already quickly burying themselves into. With God being stubbornly silent and his paranoia growing by each passing minute of the day, John found himself quivering with nerves as if he half-expected to be attacked at any moment. Raz must have sensed his reluctance, because if possible he made himself appear even more pathetic, his dark brown eyes widening hugely.

 

“You have contacts with 'em all upstairs. Even the big man 'imself right? You got to get th' word out. Somethin's loose.”

 

“Loose?”

Echoed John in disbelief, not quite understanding. He blinked in surprise when Raz's face twisted into an expression of dark terror, voice dropping to a disbelieving murmur as he recollected whatever image must have flashed in his head.

 

“Eyes that glow like them lamps on the street in the middle of th' night, 'cept they're the colour of th' moon. Horrible snarlings, echoing in the subway tunnels in the dark. Terrible sounds, it's enough t' make many team up together to get by. I seen 'em, people say they're dogs, but they ein't no dogs _I've_ ever seen before.”

The youth shuddered, wrapping his arms about his elbows as if he could stave off the chill of the memory. His voice was soft and pained.

“They took my mate Ben. He was only a kid, but he was like me..... I could hear 'em screamin', an' I couldn't do nothin' about it.... just hide and listen'. Otherwise they'd have taken me too.”

 

He looked at John then, jaw squaring as he pointed an accusing finger at the angel's chest.

“You got to do somethin'! We ein't done nothin' wrong and yet we don't even have the slightest protection your kind at least provides! If somethin' doesn't change soon-”

 

At that moment, both were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's impatiently tapping feet only a few paces away. John blinked, feeling himself being mentally called back to his Chosen's side. He shook his head to clear himself of the surge of emotion he felt over Raz's story, voice gruff and defensive as he scowled at the Nephilim before him.

 

“You probably didn't even care. You don't have human _feelings._ You're cold, and detached just like-”

 

“Just like you're supposed to be?”

The homeless youth looked him squarely in the eye, gaze frigid and hard. His parting words before he took off were cutting and sharp as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets, kicking at an imaginary stone.

“While you talk with your _Dad_ , you just _might_ want to ask him what secrets he's keepin' locked away in his ivory towers and marbled gates. After all answer me this: If an angel _can't_ love, then how in the world do _my_ kind even exist?”

Raz grinned, the expression savage and feral. It was not a happy thing, instead the look of it on his face turning the glint in his eyes broken and bitter and strangely......sad.

“After all, me Dad must've felt _somethin'_ for my Mum, considering he stayed with her for ten years until he was dragged off to _Hell._ ”

 

And then the smile faded, and Raz's eyes darted to the man waiting impatiently for John behind them, glancing over his dark coat that he wore like a cape as if to protect him from even the suggestion of light.

 

“Just don't make the same mistake me old man did. I'm beggin' ya, you don't know what I saw that day. What I watched him _have_ t' do..... I don' care what happens t' the likes of _you_ , frankly the lot of ya can burn for all I care..... but London _needs_ Sherlock Holmes.”

He flipped up the collar of his coat, glancing up at the sky. It was a thunderous grey, like the colour of a boulder poised to come tumbling down from a mountaintop onto an unsuspecting village.

 

“If only so that _someone_ will care about the ones that disappear without a trace.”

 

****

Searching for spray-painted symbols in the dark sounded like something that could possibly be fun, if one could discount the fact that it was freezing cold, and that John was more than a little preoccupied. Thick streams of his breath ghosted between his teeth as he sighed in frustration, running a hand through his short blonde hair as he looked around for any hint of yellow paint. So far, he had only found glimpses. Hints and clues in drips of neon gold, fading away into the night with no solid leads to reward his efforts. Like chasing after a trail of breadcrumbs, with the wicked witch holding a much darker intent. As he searched, his thoughts continued to flick to the conversation he had with Raz, his mind unwillingly fluttering to what the young man had implied about his and Sherlock's relationship. He felt his stomach roll at even the thought of it, and his cheeks flush red with shame. Not because the idea of being with Sherlock in that way was _repulsive_ to him, but because it admittedly _wasn't._

That was the exact problem.

A dilemma so obvious, that it had snuck up on the angel in plain daylight and blindsided him, leaving him reeling and desperately confused. He felt like someone had dipped his wings in petrol and lit them on fire, leaving him a blazing inferno of pain and burning agony.

 

He didn't know when it became that way, but the thought of spending the rest of his existence by his detective, living out their lives the way they were, had become _normal._

Right.

And that, that was _dangerous._

So wonderfully, desperately deadly that his hands shook with the force of the adrenaline that pumped through his veins at the thought of it, his breath catching in his chest and squeezing painfully. Like a python slowly constricting his ribs to pieces. A palm came to press against his lips, bitten so savagely that John tasted the strangely copper flavour of his own blood. He groaned into the night, scrubbing at his face and shaking his head savagely. He did not have time to contemplate this, he shouldn't be. Not while they were on a case. Not while he was already half out of his mind from being separated from the detective for nearly an hour. They had agreed to split up, but like an addict drawn to his drug of choice, John found he wasn't taking even the small amount of alone time particularly well. He felt tightly strung, like a piano wire pulled too tight. One wrong move could cause him to snap, and not only would he go tumbling down into the black abyss of complicated and sticky emotions, so would his Chosen. He had to be careful, but lately he felt as if he were walking on the barest edge of a cliff, the wind not on his side. John came to rest on the edge of the silver train tracks, seating himself against the cool metal of it and hanging his head between his knees so he could force himself to inhale deeply. His hands tucked against his neck, he exhaled seemingly endlessly, eyes sliding closed in horror.

 

What had he done?

What had he _done?_

What....

What had he _dared_ to do?

 

He had always felt affection for Sherlock, that wasn't the problem. That was normal, every angel loved their Chosen. But in a platonic, parent-child way. Watching him grow up, take his first steps and talk, the angel could safely say he had only felt that kind of deep visceral attachment at first. He couldn't pinpoint it, when that had slowly shifted into something new. Something fragile and oh so right and oh so very _wrong._ Something broken and twisted for an angel, something that made his gut churn painfully like he wanted to vomit and yet couldn't. When had blues and warm greens turned into blushing pinks and blazing orange-golds, hopeful hues that longed for more?

 

_You always wished for more._

His mind growled at him.

_Stupid, greedy thing. Never was enough was it? And now look where it's gotten you.... What you've done! Idiot!_

 

Then

_What will Father think?_

 

And in a sudden wave of blinding-red rage at himself that wiped his vision out into star-bursting white, John snarled, thunder rumbling darkly overhead with his controlled fury. He wanted to slap himself, wanted to shake his dull, plainly idiotic soul to its core, rip this new emotion _out._

He did not _want_ this.

Did not want these..... these _feelings._

 

 

It had taken a Human.... a measly, half-blooded _mutt_ of a Human to point it out to him, he had been so blinded.

The weight of it crushed him, left him feeling as though an inescapable hangman's noose was tightening around his neck. Cutting off all thought with blind fear. His knees trembled, threatening to give out on him as his shoulders slumped in defeat.

 

He loved Sherlock Holmes.

.....He _loved_ Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes.

A muffled, tight sound that might have been a sob escaped his chest hysterically, bubbling into the air in a puff of fog before he grit his teeth. His shoulders heaved and shuddered in dread.

He was so dead.

The angel's brain whispered mutinously in his ear.

 _No. You're_ _**both** _ _dead. Worse, you're both_ _**damned.** _

 

Because Sherlock surely wouldn't feel the same way, would he?

He would shun John's feelings, find them detestable, even more so if he knew what John was meant to _be._ He would get angry, angry at the secrets, angry at being fooled. He'd get angry at John for being _weak,_ and furious that heaven had obviously given him a defective Guardian.

His feathers flushed shamed, sickly green, and John imagined that cold and calculating hatred directed at him. Those blue eyes would blaze like twin sapphires, those dark curls would glisten like black licorice. Those cupid bow's lips would twist in heart-breaking contempt, and those strong, elegant hands would reach out in violence, not affection.

And yet, John would take it.

Take all of it.

Take every shred of abuse his Chosen had to offer, if it only meant at the end of the day he'd welcome him back.

Let him stay.

Let him sleep in his room upstairs, walk around him and chase after him on cases.

He'd take becoming invisible again, take the pain of unrequited emotions, take even in silent suffering the look of disgust Sherlock would no doubt give him when he'd think John wouldn't see.

If only he wasn't taken away.

If only in the end he could be allowed to imagine what it would be like to hold that warm, pale hand in the palm of his own.

He wondered what his Chosen would say, if he knew that he wanted nothing more than at the end of the day to hold his hand like a child, and pull him close.

 

And John's wings turned a brilliant, scalding pink, exposing his feelings for anyone who cared to see. He let them, even as they dissolved to a dull, muted grey of grief as he covered his eyes with his hands. For a moment, he let despair overtake him, swallow him whole. Capsize him like a tidal wave cresting over his head and leaving him to drown. He wanted nothing more to drown.

Nothing more than to let water fill his lungs until he couldn't breathe, even though it wouldn't kill him. Because there could be a chance, and in that second, he'd have taken it.

He'd have tried to lose himself in the dark, impenetrably stormy waters.

 

That is, if a smooth, sultry voice hadn't called out to him from the night.

“Having a rough night?”

 

John looked up from his hands, spotting a pair of impossibly dark eyes glittering from the shadow of the tree line. Soo Lin's breath left no fog as she stepped delicately out from her hiding spot in the shelter of the dark, hands pocketed in the depths of her leather jacket. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves, glistening like the edge of black lace. Her wings were a deep, ruby red.

 

She smiled at the angel before her, revealing slightly pointed fangs curving over her lower lip. The expression might have been caring, if it weren't for the cold deadness lingering in the Demon's irises and the decidedly bland motion of that grin.

“Mind if we have a chat?”

 

And then she snapped her fingers, and a very distressed Sarah Sawyer suddenly appeared. She whimpered as the Demon twisted her arm unmercifully against her back, a darkened blade flashing into her delicate hands and pressing itself against the delicate expanse of the angel's throat.

Soo Lin remained coolly detached even as John's breath hitched, his wings spreading defensively as he let loose a snarl.

 

“Let her go. _Let her go!_ She has nothing to do with this-”

 

The Demon interrupted smoothly.

“I don't think you're in a position to be making demands; Dr. Watson. This is a Darkling Blade, sharpest Demon tool in the world.”

She turned the dagger slightly, pressing it just so a thin line of blood beaded and pooled down its length. Sarah whimpered, blue eyes widening as her cries were muffled by the Demon's other hand. Her wing-tips quivered a terrified red-black.

Soo Lin's smile was sugary sweet.

 

“Tell me, do you enjoy the circus?”

 

****

Sherlock found the wall after nearly an hour and a half of searching for some kind of trace of the code. He had nearly given up actually, because it was bloody cold and he was (not that he'd ever admit it) tired and he was sure as a result that John was as well. He tried to convince himself of other reasons to go back to the flat, ones that didn't involve his blogger, but somehow that became a disturbingly frustrating task to complete. He scowled to himself, suddenly glad John wasn't here lest he notice his preoccupation as he stared at the painted wall before him in grinning victory. It was all there, all the writing. Scrawled in perfect code and promising the answer to everything.

The key to the case.

 

_What was stolen from the mother-stash?_

 

Hands held in prayer-like posture against his lips, the detective paced in front of the brick wall in thought, trying to decipher even a small piece of the numerical password before him. His mind recorded the entire image, storing it away in his Mind-Palace so he wouldn't forget even a single character. Finally, after so much chasing, he was clamping his teeth down on the throat of the case. Victory was his, he could feel it almost singing in his veins, promising a high so much like drugs at times that not even the great detective himself could tell the difference. A part of him wanted instinctively to find John, run to him and tell him proudly of his success. He viewed that side of him not unlike an overexcited puppy that needed a firm leash, dragging it back before it could get out of hand. Really, when had he become so disgustingly easy to please?

Secretly, he didn't think he minded as much as he should. A part of him was always ridiculously, foolishly wanting to receive the army doctor's praise. It was a strange, instinctive thing. Something he couldn't quite place. Like getting a hug from a warm, silken blanket. Then Sherlock snorted, realizing he must be tired indeed for his Mind-Palace to go on such a tangent in the middle of a case.

He'd have to fix this at some point, but for now, he chose to ignore it in favour of the code.

He almost didn't bother reaching for his phone when it blipped in the night, chirping sharply in the silence. Sherlock lazily slid open the lock to his screen, preparing to deliver an acidic response to whatever text Lestrade had sent him, when his heart stopped cold.

 

The text wasn't from the D.I.

Nor was it even from his temporary replacement, Dimmock.

 

In block letters, a single threat read clearly on his screen. The sender was from John's phone.

 

_**Bring the vials. We meet in this location:** _

 

A picture of a dark tunnel and a smoky garbage can. Sherlock's mind rapidly assessed it, recognizing the general area by the layout of the brickwork. His eyes narrowed as another image popped onto the screen, this time the picture causing a bubbling horror sing through his veins.

 

John.

John and that girl he met, the one he hadn't liked to start with (Sarah Sawyer, his mind supplied unhelpfully. _Delete._ )

Both of them tied to metal chairs, their hands bound and their mouths gagged by what looked to be filthy rags. John's eyes were dazed and unfocused, his irises gazing blearily into the camera as blood dripped freely from a deep gash across his forehead. Sherlock imagined he could almost _feel_ the pain from that wound, blossoming just under his skin. On his blogger's jacket, a message spray-painted ~~on~~ in stark yellow.

 

_**DEAD MAN.** _

 

The detective felt his stomach lurch, like he was suddenly being thrown off of a very high cliff-top. It was suddenly harder to breathe. Sherlock felt sheer panic before an icy, murderous calm settled over him. His hands tightened into unforgiving fists, causing the phone's plastic frame to creak dangerously. He willed himself to breathe, even though each breath felt like a shard of glass ripping into his lungs.

One last text was sent:

 

_**You have eight hours. Come alone or they die.** _

 

_**-S.L** _

 

Like a magnet drawn to its polar opposite, Sherlock had no choice but to comply.

 

After all, John was at stake.

That alone meant the detective couldn't even consider refusing Soo Lin's request.

 

****

“Just so you know, this was not my first choice when I thought about what I wanted to do on a Saturday evening.”

Soo Lin wasn't quite sure what compelled her to speak to her hostages. She had never enjoyed kidnapping situations, finding them uncomfortable and generally depressing to watch. She had hated them when she had still been with the Tong, having much preferred to play on the sidelines. Her brother had once hated them too. However, cruelty had changed him. He came to crave them, the fear in the victim's eyes as much as their screams as they suffered from torture both mental and physical in kind. The memory washed over her as she stared into those dark blue eyes gazing steadily at her, willing herself silently not to flinch away from the angel's calculating glare.

 

John managed to look as dignified as he could, given the circumstances of his situation. His back was ramrod straight as he leaned against the chair he was bound against, and even though his head was pounding and swimming from where the Demon had pistol-whipped him, he managed to look at least somewhat coherent. He tried to take in his surroundings, ignoring Sarah's muffled whimpers of terror to take into account his own injuries and the tightness of the ropes holding in place. He tugged on them experimentally, wincing a little when the coarse material bit into his wrists. They were good knots, it was obvious Soo Lin knew what she had been doing. Though he was gagged, the Demon didn't seem to mind holding both ends of the conversation. She spoke in soft, murmured tones even as she set to work, setting up an elaborate kind of trap that the angel didn't yet know the mechanics of. It involved an arrow and a sandbag, something he didn't understand. At least not yet.

 

“I would have been perfectly content just to lay low... to take care of my tea pots in peace until my brother found me and killed me.....or for _**Shan**_ to end it herself..... but then you _had_ to just go and gain the interest of the wrong person, didn't you?”

She chuckled at her own private joke, and in the moonlight the angel could see her for what she really was. Dark horns curled out of the girl's hair, glittering as darkly as her eyes (completely black, the whites not even showing). Her lips were blood red and her skin ice-pale, and her tail lashed absently about her beautiful and terrible form, ~~as~~ her wings stretched from her back like a midnight cloak.

 

“He killed them both, did you know that? Didn't even allow me the honour of a death by my own relative's hand. I'll be murdered in a gutter, and no one will miss me.”

Soo Lin whispered to John, eyes large and sad in her face as she turned to him, levelling the gun to his forehead and flexing her fingers lazily over the trigger. The angel struggled to keep his breathing even, noting the dark runes lining the barrel of the weapon. Chances were if he were shot with it, even his extraordinary healing capabilities wouldn't be able to withstand it. The muzzle was ice-cold against his burning forehead. Unwillingly, his thoughts turned to one thing:

_Sherlock._

 

The Demon hovered over him, smirking as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her eyes glowed frigidly as slowly, she pulled the gun away and holstered it to her hip.

“You're all the same. Always have only one thing on your mind. It'd be almost cute, if it wasn't pitiful. I threaten your life, and yet the first thing you think of is _him._ Heh.”

 

She smirked, unknowing to just how deeply her words stung. John's gaze lowered to his feet for a moment, a dull kind of guilt filling him. Soo Lin saw the change in the colour of his wings, but she did not understand the shades of muddled blue and baby-pink. Sarah however, did. Her eyes filled with a sort of horrified pity before she too looked away, staring resolutely at her lap. It was so quiet, one could hear the distant drizzle of rain outside, shining wetly on the stones as it dripped down the drains of the tunnel. The Demon's heeled shoes tapped lightly in the puddles as she seated herself primly on top of a wooden crate, dark eyes gleaming with a faint absence. Almost fond, like she was looking at memories of a time lost long ago.

“It wasn't always this way. I wonder sometimes, what daylight looks like through Human eyes. It only hurts me now, makes everything too bright and fuzzy-edged. I tolerate it, but I can't enjoy it.... Is it the same for you I wonder? Can you still feel the warmth of the sunlight and not feel _burned_ by it?”

 

John thought the sun was actually quite dull, compared to Heaven. Compared to _**Scheol.**_

He didn't bother to even try to respond, just gritted his teeth in silence. The Demon sighed, as if he was a great disappointment to her.

 

“Come now, don't sulk. It's so unbecoming for a Messenger Of The Lord. Where's the hellfire? Where's the holy justice in this world? Do you know, Mr. Watson? Does she?”

 

She turned to Sarah, grinning in a predatory way. She flinched away violently in her chair and whimpered. The Demon threw back her head and laughed.

“Now see, _she_ knows how to react to my kind. She follows her instincts, I can _smell_ the fear on her like a dress.” Her chin tilted back to John calculatingly, eyes narrowing fixedly on his clenched jaw and solid shoulders.

“However, you don't smell like terror. Rather, your scent is _peculiar_ in general.”

 

Leaning forward, Soo Lin's eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled deeply through her nose. Her lips pressed against John's throat, the angel knew she could feel his soul, his heart quivering. He felt a smile curve against his clavicle before she pulled away.

“You enjoy it, don't you? The emotions, the hormonal soup that is humanity. You _get off_ on it, get a kick out of playing the Human. Playing at _feelings_ , playing at the kind _doctor_.”

 

She spat the last word contemptuously, eyes shining with quiet rage as her voice lowered to a snarl.

“And yet what do you actually _do? Filthy angels_ , you are the true Demons. Pretending everything at the end of the day will turn out good, even when the world is crumbling down around your ears! Blissful ignorance, it killed my Mother, and it turned my brother into a _monster!_ ”

 

Soo Lin's voice rattled with animosity, and John had to hold himself very still to keep from cowering.

There was no answer to her accusations, and yet he wanted to scream. Wanted to shout that it wasn't his _fault._ Wasn't his _choice_ to be born on the side of the angels. He hadn't _picked_ _them._

_He hadn't chosen to live by these rules._

 

He....

He had been _claimed_ from the start.

 

The revelation made his eyes widen, and Soo Lin looked at him with dark, searching eyes, seeming to read his mind once again. Her smile was gone, and her voice was serious and soft once more.

 

“When things are put into perspective, it's astonishing how little things make sense.”

 

She rose to her feet, putting the finishing piece on the trap she had been building. What John and Sarah now witnessed before them was a kind of contraption, something between a catapult and a crossbow. It glinted in the light of one of the fires with a deadly kind of sheen. Soo Lin tilted the sharply-tipped arrow in its launcher, pointing it without any elaborate pomp or presentation directly towards Sarah's heart. John felt his heart stop, his muscles creaking as he literally _strained_ against the ropes binding them. Hen tried to resist the urge to cry out, wings quivering with rage as he watched the pointed arrow as it was slowly positioned into place. The Demon smirked as Sarah tried to curl in on herself, struggling feebly and making small incomprehensible pleas behind her gag. The tip of the arrow was capped with a darker hue-

Demon magic. It was unlikely she'd survive if it hit home.

 

“You're probably wondering what I have to gain from this.” Soo Lin went on conversationally, as if John wasn't fighting tooth and nail against his imprisonment and Sarah wasn't shrieking from behind her gag.

“It's simple, really. Your rage. I can smell it from here, its potency. It's delicious, really. Like chocolate and fine wine.” She smiled as she drank it in. The raw fear, the hot and molten hatred. It made her shiver in delight, the angel's soul throbbing before her in blinding glory. She wanted to drink, wanted to taste and devour. She had denied herself for so long. Now two in front of her was like a feast to a starving man, and the Demon could no longer refuse her instincts. Her canines sank further down from their normal position, a low and feral growl reverberating through her chest. _**He**_ had said she couldn't kill John..... but as for the _other_ one.....

John realized Soo Lin was quickly devolving into her true monster. If he didn't somehow distract her, she wouldn't wait for her own trap to fall. The sandbag was already cut, and slowly the scale mechanism was lowering. Sarah watched it with huge eyes, her wings flashing distressed mixes of white-panic and grey despair. John wished he could tell her he was sorry for involving her in this. Sorry for everything. Sorry he couldn't save her....

He wondered for a brief moment what would happen to her Chosen, the moment that arrow struck her heart.

Then he closed his eyes and tried his best to muffle out the hungry snarls echoing through the tunnel, not wanting to listen to the sound of one of his friends having their souls ripped out of their bodies. Soo Lin leaned in as if to strike, eyes like aglow like sparks of lightning striking the horizon. She thought once of her brother, and to herself she silently agreed that perhaps this was for the best.

After all, he had died unknowing, unfeeling. He had died not realizing that what he was doing was inherently wrong. When she died, she would have her beating heart still in her chest, and she would know.

She would feel guilt.

She would be aware of agony.

For Jim Moriarty like to play with his food as much as eat it.

At least, that was what she thought.

 

And so she made the only decision she could. Instead of lunging for Sarah, it was John's neck she pushed forward as if to expose

 

In the end, Soo Lin saw the glint of cold metal and smiled.

A moment of euphoric happiness filled her as something large, heavy, and undoubtedly lethal struck her square in the chest, white noise filling her ears as she was thrown to the ground with the force of the blow. It was silent in her head as she lay there, unbreathing, unmoving save for the tilt of her head as her cheek felt the cool dampness of water.

In the silence, she thought she could picture Liang's face.

Then time stopped for Soo Lin, and in turn restarted for John.

 

That was when the sound of a bullet tore through the dead air, and the terrible growls were abruptly cut short.  John felt the blood rush to his head as his eyes snapped open, and he saw something that made no sense.

The lifeless heap on the ground looked like  Soo Lin.

Lay where Soo Lin stood.

 _Died_ like Soo Lin would, if she had a gaping hole in her chest. The blood flowed sluggish, black and oily as it churned out and trickled over his shoes.

Dark puddles of ink.

Endless pools of night.

 

Or maybe that was the Demon's eyes, rapidly turning glassy as she looked at John. A small, serene smile ghosted her features, and her mouth opened as if she'd very much like to whisper something. However she never got the chance.

Those limbs stiffened.

Those eyes turned to cold marble.

Like all Demons, she turned to stone before crumbling rapidly away into dust.

 

In the end, Soo Lin died like an angel or a creature of darkness would.

Dust to dust.

Sand to sand.

John would remember the shape of her lips, and the echo of what he thought she had been trying to tell him.

 

_I'm free._

 

It was when she fell to scattered sand, that a low whistle chirped throughout the tunnel.

Then a voice that was at once both chilling and friendly drawled right against the shell of John's ear, causing the angel to jump in his binds, unable to turn around. The breath that hissed at him filled him with ice, deadening the very cry for help that had been working its way to his lips.

 

“And _that's_ why I loathe working with Demons. Always think in the end they can just do what they want.” The voice tutted callously, the sound soft and feather-light against John's temple. The angel tried to open his eyes, but found every muscle in his body to be frozen. Like all of his limbs had seized up, he could do nothing more but make a weakly garbled, enquiring sound from the back of his throat. The laugh that he was rewarded with was amused, as if he was a most wonderful little pet that had just tried to do some kind of trick.

 

“Now, now. It's a bit early to see faces just yet. I just had to catch a little glimpse of my protege to be.... this little experiment _has_ been fun, but as poor Soo Lin knows, Daddy's had enough now.....”

 

The man sang the last bit, and the voice cut off with a rumbling growl. John felt like his chest was leaden with ice, like shards of frost were creeping up the back of his neck. He couldn't draw enough air to breathe. He felt a burning-hot hand stroke the side of his cheek in a gentle caress, the sensation like a lick of fire along his throat. A sound of piteous fear echoed throughout the tunnel and it took him a while to realize where it came from.

 

Sarah saw whatever was behind him.

Her eyes were huge, and she was shaking like a leaf. Tears _streamed_ down her cheeks, silver-gold and inhuman.

 

The sound of distant footsteps thudded dully in the angel's ears. Though his thoughts were slow and sluggish, John managed to recognize them.

_Sherlock._

 

The voice was already fading, until the angel wondered if he had actually heard it at all. It reverberated in his head lightly, bouncing along the inside of his skull like a stone tossed into still water. The ripples sent an ache throughout the angel's mind. It starbursted into an agony so intense he cried out, blackness filling his vision before turning pinprick white.

“ _ **Give Sherlock Holmes my regards won't you? Tell him that it's from his biggest fan....”**_


	19. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a lot shorter than my others, but it is the start of things coming to a head ^.^'' I hope you all enjoy!  
> This song I've been wanting to use for a very long time :D It's angel with a shotgun, by the cab. :)  
> My beta is currently unable to edit, but I did the best I could. Please let me know if you find anything!
> 
> *edit- whoops! almost forgot! the lovely Devisama has made me a ridiculously wonderful piece of fanart for this story, which you can see here:
> 
> http://devisamarama.tumblr.com/post/62137460791/this-is-a-gift-for-twistedthicket1-based-on-the
> 
> *dances happily* THANK YOU THANK YOU! :D

 

  
_Sometimes to win, you've got to sin,_   
_don't mean I'm not a believer._   
_..and major Tom, will sing along._   
_Yeah, they still say I'm a dreamer._

_They say before you start a war,_   
_you better know what you're fighting for._   
_Well baby, you are all that I adore,_   
_if love is what you need, a soldier I will be._

_I'm an angel with a shotgun,_   
_fighting til' the wars won,_   
_I don't care if heaven won't take me back._   
_I'll throw away my faith, babe, just to keep you safe._   
_Don't you know you're everything I have?_   
_..and I, wanna live, not just survive, tonight._

 

 

The Devil smiled as he turned to look appreciatively at the silhouette that stood in his doorway, taking in Death's flowing white dress and piercing gold eyes. Their skin was as milky as moonlight as they perched atop the balcony of his hotel room, bare feet crossed at the ankles and short, dark hair ruffling slightly in the night's breeze. Their knuckles clutched at the iron trellis that they sat upon tightly, palms whitening further as their lips were drawn into a tight line of distaste. They appeared to be made of salt and midnight starlight, despite the contained expression of disgust that only deepened as Sebastian stirred in the hotel bed. The huddled body whimpered slightly in sleep, and Jim knew what Death saw when she looked at the shell of a man lost to his own unconsciousness.

 

A yawning, black hole where a life should have been, empty and void.

 

When Jim spoke, he fished around in his pockets until he found a cigarette, his thumb alighting in flame for the briefest of seconds to light it before he sucked in the smoke and blew two rings out into the air. Death stared at the halos that drifted towards them, face impassive as they felt the tendrils of smoke wisp about their neck and circle their throat in an invisible noose before fading. Their gaze glowed hotly as they cradled the golden pocket-watch in their hands, the lid opened to reveal the inside. Except instead of the emerald-green hand, there were two others ticking in place. A red and a black one. The red one was ticking, but it was turning counter-clockwise. Defying the sense of time as it wound around and around. The smaller black one was completely still, lying on the twelve directly and resting there as it had for a very long time. Stagnant, was Death's impression of it. Too still and unnatural. They closed the watch with a sharp  _click,_ frowning as Moriarty gazed at them with eyes like crackled with cinders.

 

“You making your yearly rounds again are you? Trying to convince me to let him go? Don't you ever get  _tired_ playing favourites with Daddy?”

 

Death's eyes flicked to Sebastian's face, which was pale and grey in the moonlight. Harsh breaths shuddered out of his body, rattling cantankerously like his lungs were filled with marbles. It was a ghastly sound, and the Devil tutted softly as he flicked the dazzling end of his cigarette so it spat hot ash like dragon's breath.

 

“You know you can't take him. I've been stronger than you for almost a millennia and a half now, and even when I wasn't I knew how to push  _allllll_ the right buttons to get to you.”

 

Death's golden eyes flashed fire, and they were on their feet noiselessly and crossing the room in an instant. Moriarty's cigarette suddenly fell on the floor as he crumpled to the ground in surprise, eyes going wide as he clutched at his throat. A horrible, sickly purple bruise blossomed over his trachea, swelling over his jaw as Death towered over him, eyes like twin points of light glowing eerily in the darkness. They glittered cruelly as the Devil wheezed like an accordion tossed over a bridge.

 

Then, for the first time in many years, Death spoke.

 

Their voice was soft, and yet it held a power to it, a compulsion that demanded none look away. Like a weight it settled on the room, seeming to suck the oxygen from the air like a black vortex of space. It echoed from everywhere and nowhere at once.

 

“ _ **I have lived a thousand lives and seen a thousand Gods die and be reborn. Do you really think it wise to test me? I am not good or evil, there is no such thing. Only existence. Only me.”**_

 

The Devil keened lowly on his back, clutching at his neck like it burned him. He laughed through the tears of pain that watered in his eyes.

“ _There...._ ” He panted “That's..... the reaction.... I.....wanted.....No more gentle....No more nice.....Only the destruction....you leave behind......”

Curled on the floor, he reached a pale hand outwards, as if imploring for mercy. However, nothing was merciful about what he held in his palm. His fingers uncurled to reveal a rune marked into his skin in dark ink. Its shape resembled a pentagon, and yet something was decidedly warped, older about it. Inside were unrecognisable runes, terrible symbols that made Death unwillingly recoil as if they had been struck. They backed away slowly, hands clenching into fists as they felt the darkness in the mark touch them. Though they claimed there was no good or evil, the mark made their lip curl into a snarl of hatred.

 

Such a sign had not been used since The War.

 

Jim chuckled darkly, rising to his feet with sinuous grace as the bruising mark already began to fade. His cat-like grin stretched reflexively as his dark eyes blinked in wonder.

“I wasn't sure that would work, honestly. Found the spell in a little shop just north of Dublin. Stupid little Human didn't even realise the kind of potential they held in the pages of their ancestors journal. 'Course I showed him its potential, right before I chained him and his family to their beds and lit the house on fire.”

He licked his lips at the memory, eyebrow cocking in question.

 

“Do you remember those souls? Or have you collected so many that it was just a blip on your radar? The husband made a nice addition to my garden  **down there.** ”

 

He pointed sardonically at the floor, fingers then smoothing down his tie, which had become slightly rumpled by his fall. When he looked back up at Death, he grinned.

 

Gone was the woman in white. In her place was something shadowy, a flicker of the true form under Death's mask. It was something ghostly and not-quite-there, grey like a thundercloud and wispy like gauze curtains flowing in the breeze. Those gold eyes still glowed, but now they held silent outrage.

 

“ _ **You toy with forces not under your domain.”**_

They hissed, and as if to mark their point at that moment a soft whine came from the bed. Both heads turned to hear the small, animal-like sounds coming from Sebastian's throat, the edge laced with dark panic that threatened to turn into howling. Jim's grin slowly faded from his face as he saw Death stare at his Chosen, his expression slowly turning murderous before his voice became icy and final.

 

“The answer is no. I stopped fearing you the moment I broke your rules.”

 

Death looked at him cryptically, gaze penetrating the man before them and stripping him of all of his pride, all of his power. Their response was immediate, but holds no emotion. They were back to being distant.

 

“ _ **Do as you wish. He'll come to me eventually..... As will you.”**_

 

Moriarty sneered, and Death smiled, whispering softly.

“ _ **Even Gods die....”**_

 

“I'm flattered, do you really hold me in such high esteem?” He mocked. Instead of answering, Death spared one last sad look at the pathetic shell curled under the blankets. Sebastian's pale face sweated under the moonlight, and he cried softly into his hands. The silver of his scars glinted like stainless steel, washed out by the luminance outside.

Death faded, turning into a shadow before vanishing completely. They impart one last piece of knowledge on the Devil, and even though Jim didn't fear the being, he shivered at the empty detachment of Death's words.

 

“ _ **I am not destruction, despite what you believe. I am merely the end of one world.”**_

and then

“ _ **Before you can ask, the answer is no. I will not stop asking for him, and no, I will not join your fight..... Even if you resort to threats.”**_

 

The Devil's snarl into the night was coupled with Sebastian's soft and discordant sobbing.

"Believe what you want, but remember that when no one _else_ will welcome you with open arms.... I always have...."

 

****

John woke with a splitting headache. It felt like a thousand tiny versions of Sherlock were slowly trying to take apart his brain, tearing it open with a harpoon. He groaned, his throat rasping audibly at the sound. At the rough cadence of his own voice he winced, barely noticing when something shifted beside him. The sound of fabric chafing was instantly recognizable, its impatient staccato speaking of restless energy and too much time spent waiting in a hospital chair. Sherlock's deep voice rumbled deeply by his ear, a tether back to reality as John's world slowly swam back into focus.

 

“John? John....Wake up John... This hospital is unbelievably  _dull_  and the nurses won't let me take you home until you awaken....”

 

_Maybe I should just stay under._

John considered idly to himself, enjoying briefly the vague sense of floatiness before Sherlock's thundering thoughts pulled him forcibly from sleep. Like slithering vines they curled about him protectively, the detective's mind coaxing him into wakefulness with a mindless kind of chatter that sounds to the angel like water tumbling down a brook. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to see the white, chemical walls of a hospital surrounding him, as well as a somewhat haggard face sitting directly in his line of vision. It took John all of a second to realise that Sherlock was crouched right by his bed, cat-like eyes glowing in the dim lights and sparking when he saw John looking at him. He was on his feet in an instant, searching for ice-chips until he came back with success and held them out carefully for the angel to take. John lifted his hand to grab one and realised with a wince that his head was threatening to crack open, and a dull throbbing pulsed throughout his entire body like a second heartbeat. The detective seemed to notice his discomfort, as he hastily offered an explanation even while watching John slowly chew the ice chips into water.

It was heavenly.

 

“I found you and Sarah just after Soo Lin shot herself, at least I assume that's what happened, though she seems to have slunk away.... Heard the gunshot and made deductions. How much do you remember? Dimmock's going to want your statement....”

His brusque tone hid the thoughts that John could hear, humming away to the beat that Sherlock tapped restlessly on his knee as he waited patiently for John to reply. His entire posture was unnaturally tense, and it took John a moment to recognize the marks of exhaustion filing on his Chosen's face. Dark circles ringed Sherlock's eyes, and the plum-coloured shirt he wore looked decidedly rumpled and slept in. Instead of dark dress-trousers, the detective had on a pair of jeans that were all too familiar. Though they were a little short in the leg for him, Sherlock didn't seem to mind John's clothes and instead adjusted the belt holding up the waist absently. It would have been an almost comical appearance, if it weren't for the decidedly murderous expression the detective wore. His light-coloured eyes were carefully blank, as if he was suppressing any emotion, not allowing it to surface. His thoughts were positively rabid.

 

 

John felt a little unsettled by the spinning, chaotic quality of the voice whispering in his ear.

 

_Thought at first **you** were shot **NO** not good stop it now, No body found yet Sarah said the woman shot herself. Doesn't match up, normally suspicious but she's obviously distraught and so not lying. Worried almost lost you. Didn't think. Stupid. I'm  **stupid** for letting this happen. Inexcusable...._

 

“Feels like a truck ran me over, though that's probably the concussion speaking.” John chuckled, running his fingers experimentally across his scalp and feeling the thick padding of bandages.

“And before you start beating yourself up over this, it's not your fault.” He frowned as Sherlock's thoughts heartily disagreed, shaking his head before he accidentally gave himself away. It would be a bit not good to suddenly gain mind-reading as an ability, especially with Sherlock Holmes involved. His thoughts took a different turn as the events of the other night slowly came to him, drifting up from the murky waters of pain medication and gauze. John remembered the taste of gunpowder in the air, and the way the Demon's eyes had glittered like onyx in the tunnel. An image of Sarah popped into his head, her eyes teary and red. He was asking about her in an instant.

 

“Oh God, what happened to Sarah? Is she all right?”

 

For a moment, John was momentarily surprised by the emotions rippling just under the surface of his Chosen's blank expression. There was anger, hot and bitter like iron. Then, it cooled into something guilty and shamed, twisting into worry. Finally Sherlock shrugged non-committally, his words surprisingly tactful and polite.

“She thought it best not to continue in her relationship with you..... She asked me to tell you that she's 'sorry'.”

 

Ah.

Truthfully, John wasn't surprised. He leaned back on his pillow and sighed, understanding Sarah's choice and assuming their Father had a hand in it. He didn't want her risking her life if she didn't want to, and he knew that her Chosen was first in her mind. It made sense, and the angel didn't hold it against her. He privately just hoped they could remain friends.

He had liked her, despite everything that had happened. It would be a shame to break apart a companionship if nothing else.

 

“For the best probably.” He grinned at Sherlock, expecting a returned smile. However the detective's lips didn't do so much as twitch in response. His Chosen's eyes were flat as they stared at nothing, lost in his own thoughts that tumbled about so quickly that John found himself strangely claustrophobic.

 

The angel grew concerned as Sherlock refused to look at him. He stared resolutely at his hands, fingers carefully curling and uncurling in rapid succession. Like two springs coiling, bracing for an impact that John couldn't see.

 

When he did finally speak, the detective's voice was low and distant. Quiet.

 

“They think.... the doctors think Soo Lin pistol-whipped you. Sarah confirmed it. There shouldn't be any permanent damage, but the idiots at the front desk wouldn't let me take you home until you woke up.” He scowled, and a possessive streak flashed like silver through Sherlock's mind before it became overwhelmed by a cresting wave of fear. John didn't understand, not until the detective looked at him with his detached expression and murmured

“I understand if you wish to leave. I've already had Mycroft make arrangements, and you won't have a problem finding a new flat. I'll go fetch a nurse and get you something to eat.”

His Mind-Palace as if preparing for the worst, suddenly shut like a steel trap. John all but reeled back from the abrupt cut-off, blinking in confusion even as Sherlock stood and made as if to leave.

 

The angel felt like his stomach had suddenly decided to take up kick-boxing. Without exactly meaning to, he scrambled up into a sitting position, ignoring the scream of pain in his head that begged him to stay still. John's voice rose instinctively, calling out to Sherlock as he watched with belated horror how the detective seemed to shut the world out around him as he collected his coat.

 

“Where are you going? Sherlock, what's wrong?!”

 

_My fault. Always my fault.... Can't let it happen again...Too close-_

 

“What was 'too close?'” John asked, forgetting that Sherlock hadn't spoken out loud.

“Sherlock,  _answer me!_ ”

The detective didn't even appear to hear him, ignoring his plea for an explanation even while winding his robin's-egg blue scarf about his neck. John didn't notice how his fingers lingered on the soft fabric for a moment, instead seeing the haunted expression cross his Chosen's face once before it smoothed back into ice. Sherlock's voice was cold as he made his good-byes.

 

“I need to think for a bit....  _Please,_  John.” He added when it looked like the man might climb out of his bed in an attempt to stop him. John paused, torn between the importance of his Chosen actually using manners and wanting to soothe the part of his Bond that was irrationally screaming to make sure Sherlock was okay. It was obvious something was wrong, but for once the angel found himself hitting a brick wall again and again as he tried to gain access into the detective's mind. Like a sieve it was completely closed off, and John wasn't even sure how Sherlock was doing it. He wanted to shout in frustration, to fight the feeling that he was losing the only thing he cared about without even having a good reason why. Instead he forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting down his panic and clenching his jaw until he felt his molars ache. His voice didn't shake as he spoke, but it was filled with an ache that the angel couldn't quite contain.

 

John hated himself for it, all the more so as more memories filtered through to him of last night.

_IlovehimIlovehimohGodIlovehimIdon'tknowwhattodoanymoremaybethisreallyisforthebest-_

 

“Be back in time to spring me from here?”

He asked quietly, ignoring the fact that it sounded pathetically like begging.

Sherlock nodded once, still seeming distracted, but John's shoulders sagged in relief. He slumped forward, trying not to feel as if he was being torn apart when his Chosen deliberately walked away from him, coat flaring out like a cape around his ankles.

 

John was determined not to feel like he was being punished for his crimes as he gripped the sheets and willed himself to stay in bed.

 

****

London roared like a caged tiger as Sherlock forced himself outside St. Bart's hospital, ignoring the twinge that was twisting in his gut and left him feeling breathless and sick. It was cold, colder somehow than it had been the night before when he had phoned an ambulance and watched as men came and lifted a limp and fragile-looking John onto a stretcher. When he closes his eyes, he can see the flash of the blue lights, and the tingle of fear he had felt for a moment when he had seen the doctor's body slumped and tied to a chair.

 

There had been so much blood. More blood that should have ever covered John Watson's face. Only later would Sherlock be told that it wasn't his doctor's. The reddish tint had covered his hands as he hastily undid John's bonds, seeming to stain his skin and give the impression of never washing off completely. The detective looked at his hands now even as he fished around his pockets for a cigarette, finding one and holding it to his bowed lips before finding a light. Sherlock noticed with some distaste in himself that his fingers shook slightly around the filter as he exhaled a sharp gust of smoke.

The wispy tail of it was as clouded as his thoughts.

 

He knew he was going to crash, if he wasn't careful. Sherlock could feel his heart hammering inside of his chest like a drum stretched far too tightly, and a familiar squeezing sensation gripped his throat. Like a noose it threatened to choke him, its coils winding about tighter and tighter until he felt like he was gasping for breath. The cold wind bit at his skin as he realized with a jolt that he was pacing outside, feet clattering loudly on the pavement even as the grey clouds overhead watched him impassively. He willed himself to still and breathe despite the feeling a steely pipe being lodged in his throat. The cigarette flicked amber ash onto the ground as he ran his thumb over the filter, sighing in exasperation as he came to acknowledge why he felt like he was falling into an abyss.

 

The fact was, John had very nearly been killed the other night. Though the good doctor had only been out of it for a couple of hours, he had given the detective plenty of time to envision every single possibility of what could have gone wrong as he had waited at his bedside. And  _many,_ _ **many**_ things could have made the case end in disaster. In fact, Sherlock could count them all. Exactly nine-hundred and thirty-two possibilities, and he hadn't even accounted for  _Sarah._ His Mind-Palace reeled from the knowledge of it, and everything inside of him had viciously decided to have a field day and point out  _every single way_ Sherlock could have prevented things from getting so out of hand. As if his thoughts had suddenly turned into a pack of ravenous wolves, they clawed at one another and snarled, berating each other and creating a clamour that was barely softened by the edge of nicotine flooding his system. The detective winced, his own voice layered upon layer and shouting and mumbling deductions. It hadn't happened to him in a while, but Sherlock knew right away what this was. He ground the cigarette into a stub with his heel, raking a hand through his inky curls and tugging them into some order as he came to realise he was experiencing a panic attack. A fairly strong one, judging from the way he struggled to even his breathing and how his knees seemed determined to wobble. Images flickered behind his eyelids, some relevant, others not as much. Snippets of a night he'd rather forget, and yet cannot stop imagining.

 

It was too similar.

He had almost arrived too late.

He would have never forgiven himself. He didn't forgive himself  _now._

**_Stupid._ **

**_Stupid. Stupid!_ **

 

And though outwardly Sherlock appeared serene and impassive, inside his armour began to crack and chink. Something cocaine would have once fixed and yet now there was nothing to stop it.

 

_Are you **sure** 'Lock?_

 

Sea-blue eyes, looking at him steadily. A smile as warm and wild as the California sun. Burning.

 

_FUCK THE BRACELET!_

 

Smashed cups, shattering explosively. The noise too loud in empty arguments and cursing.

 

_You **Machine.**_

 

Sea-blue eyes icing over. The warmth fading from the smile and turning it cruel. Edged constantly in pain.

Irises dead and flat as stone.

 

_**Hey, shhh Sherlock, it's okay....** _

 

Soft touches, gentle fingertips tracing the line of Sherlock's mouth. A warm mouth pressed against his, feather-light and unyielding.

 

_**Goodbye...** _

 

A body being fished out of the Thames.

Sherlock leaned heavily against the wall of St. Bart's, closing his eyes as he unwillingly remembered.

 

 ****

John lay in the hospital bed, gritting his teeth and trying not to scream.

His Bond pulled at him, trying to tear itself out of his chest to return to Sherlock.

Return to the man's side.

_Gonegonegoneyoumadehimleave **yourfault** gonegonegone-_

 

It was agony, like withdrawal running all over his skin. Tingling like fire. His own thoughts mocked him.

Twice a nurse had stopped to see if he was all right. Having seen nothing wrong with his vitals (for angel's appeared Human enough with the right kind of magic) They had left him alone.

They did not know that John was listening to Sherlock's thoughts.

Did not know that the angel was witnessing a man's heart break, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Even though to watch it shatter meant the breaking of his own.

He was hearing everything that had happened while he was gone. He felt his hands tighten into unforgiving fists. His fingers shook with the suppressed need to reach out and strike. Instead he bit his lip, trying to see past he haze that filled him.

It was the last straw.

The  _last_ fucking straw to an already top-heavy pack. The angel could feel everything crumble around him as he came to realise with grim conclusion that he had been  _lied_ to.

Lied to by the one man he trusted as much as his Chosen. 

 

He felt a strange, tingling fury at the unfairness of the entire situation surge through him.

White hot. Angry.

Furious with himself.

Furious with Sherlock.

Furious with his  _Father._

It was strange, how anger made everything tint redly and yet filled the angel with a startling clarity.

An aching fear.

 

John was  _bitter._

 _  
_It was a strange emotion, sickly and yet satisfying. Righteous. He revelled in it, momentarily forgetting his hurt to relish the taste. However soon the emotion faded, filling in with a strange, irrational numbness that left him feeling heavy as lead.

_No....._

John, for the first time, felt an emptiness in his heart, gaping and yawning into a seemingly endless expanse.

Because the angel didn't  _believe_ for once that things would be okay. In fact, he couldn't make himself believe it if he  _tried._

_Because how could anything be right, when something so wrong could just happen and no one had bothered to tell him? How could anything be right, when he wanted to hold his Chosen close and care for him and **fix** him when he wasn't allowed?_

_How could anything be right, when his love caused destruction to a friendship like **this** when it wasn't even out in the open?_

_How could anything be right when I can't bring myself to apologize for wanting to hold him?_

 

The exact moment the thought sounded in his head there was a ripple of breath right by his ear.

An exhale.

A sigh of delicious glee.

John didn't hear it, but if he had, he would have shivered. He did not notice the Dark Magic coiling tightly about him, circling his waist like climbing vines and constricting his air-flow.

All the angel tasted was anger, hot and metallic on his lips.

It tasted like blood.

It tasted like loyalty dividing, breaking apart.

 

He didn't remember the chanting voice that had breathed into him back in the tunnel, marking his mind with doubt.

 

 

**_And now, we are set to play._ **

****

**_  
_** _.....Sherlock....._

 


	20. Something Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I am trying this thing where I make slightly shorter chapters, but update more frequently. Does this work? Is this okay?? *mumbles to oneself in reflection* any who. :) Song is Show me that you're human by Gabrielle Aplin :D hope you enjoy! kudos and comments make my world go round as always, and thank you so much already for the ones received. *bows*

 

 

 

 

_Show me that you’re human, you won’t break_   
_Oh love your flaws and live for your mistakes_   
_Beauty’s on the surface wearing thin_   
_Come closer show the marks upon your skin_   
_Show me that you're human_   
_Show me that you're human_

_You’re a spark without flame_   
_I’m a desert in the rain,_   
_You’re a mountain and I’m a stepping stone_   
_So walk away from your pride_   
_It’s a demon is disguise_   
_And it won’t help you to calm the swelling tide_

_Oh_   
_Show me that you’re human, you won’t break..._

_There is a name that no one says....._

_Zhi Zhu.... The Spider....._

_**I've got a sponsor.....** _

 

__**MORIARTY-** _ _

 

Sherlock woke with a start, jack-knifing into a sitting position and rapidly blinking, trying to figure out where he was. At first, he could not get the contradicting images to coalesce into something whole and concrete. Slowly, pictures swam into focus, his brain clicking pieces together rapidly as he took in the chemical smell in the air and the sound of a heart monitor nearby. The detective relaxed as he came to realise with some annoyance that he had dozed off in one of the horrid blue hospital chairs by John's bedside. His neck cricked in protest as he sat up slowly, blinking the remnants of a dream he couldn't recall away from his focus as he turned to look over at the army doctor resting by his side.

 

His lips tightened into a guilty white line as he took in John's form, looking small and pale in the hospital bed. Tomorrow the nurses said his doctor would be released, but Sherlock didn't expect things (much as he wanted them to) to fall back to normal when they returned to the flat. Not when he could feel himself coiling tighter and tighter with each passing day like a badly-tuned instrument and not with John's face looking so tired and broken. He ignored the part of his brain that screamed that he fix this somehow, the part that tugged at his chest like an irritating hand and refused to be silent. It had been getting worse lately, and had started the moment Sherlock had almost believed John to have been snatched away from him forever.

 

Like a drum skein stretched too tightly, it shuddered inside of him. Hollow.

 

Sherlock growled to himself. What he needed to do was break off this inconvenient set of emotions playing hazard with his thoughts. Separate it, divide it like an island and cast it aside. Let it drift in the fog of pretend and continue the life he's so carefully carved out. A life of John, his best friend (his  _only_ friend) running beside him, chasing the tails of cases like two stray dogs following speeding cars. A world of tea and warmth and above all  _safety._ Because as dangerous as their lives were on a regular basis, they were dangerous only in the sense of broken bones and blood.

 

Broken hearts and something as messy as  _sentiment_ was so much worse.

Something that was nearly impossible to suture closed with even the strongest stitches.

Love was such a pathetic, predictable,  _Human_ emotion. On some level, the detective was disgusted with himself over the fact that he hadn't figured it out sooner. _  
_

Because if he had, he might have been able to prevent it. 

 

Pressing his hands against his bowed lips, Sherlock was oblivious to the fact that John was actually in the midst of a nightmare.

 

The soldier's shoulders twitched slightly with sleep, eyes scrunching up as if in pain as he rolled over in his bed, as if to fight off some imaginary demon. The detective almost didn't look up, except for the fact that John let loose a very slight whimper, muffled by how his cheek was now pressed against the sheets. Sherlock's thoughts slowed as he looked on with a mixture of concern and reluctant fascination, blue eyes taking in the tension that had suddenly filled his friend's sleeping form. John seemed to curl into himself as he lay prone on the bed, fingers tightening compulsively about air, as if he were groping for someone's hand in the dark. His teeth snagged on his lower lip, and an animalistic curling of his nose indicated pain.

 

Sherlock could not see the dark, tendril-like blackness encircling his friend's waist, tightening slowly around John's middle like heavy chains and crawling towards his throat. Instead, what the detective did see was how his friend's breaths were becoming shallow and filled with panic, and a strange twisting in his stomach compelled him to wake John. Demanded it, actually. Except he wasn't sure how exactly to go about it. He knew John suffered occasionally from nightmares, his PTSD made it unavoidable.

 

Until now though, Sherlock had only helped from a distance. He had played his violin into late hours of the night, lulling the good doctor back to sleep from the clutches of his own mind. He had made sure to have John exhausted from everywhere all hours of the day, so that he couldn't dream even when he got sleep, and even ensured on nights were he suspected the dreams might take a turn for the worse to keep John's tea decaffeinated and sleep-promoting.

 

But he had never before sat in front of John,  _watched_ the man dream. That fact seemed dreadfully important to Sherlock for some reason, made him hesitate before reaching out to touch his friend's shoulder. His fingers hovered an inch from John's exposed neck, unknowingly over the creeping vines of darkness, when a small cough caused him to freeze and draw his hand hastily away.

 

Sherlock spun about to glare at whoever had intruded, and found himself looking at Sarah's small form. She hovered at the door-frame, blue eyes wide and focused on where the detective's hand had just rested, her lips parted in a small  _oh_ of surprise that was quickly melting into barely-concealed disgust. Sherlock scowled, assuming  _homophobe_ when the real answer would be impossible for him to glean. His blue-green eyes took in swiftly the already-fading bruise around her wrists and mouth from being tied up, as well as the coat that protected her from the oncoming chill that would soon settle over London like a kiss.

 

In her figure he could see lines of timidness, and also carefully-masked fear. Of what, Sherlock didn't know for certain, although it may have had something to do with the fact that last time she met him, Sarah had wound up kidnapped and almost killed. Dull.

He kept his voice low for John's sake as he spoke, trying to be at least _marginally_ polite for John's sake. Sherlock refused to admit it was because he was feeling vaguely guilty about the prior events.

 

“Was there something you wanted to tell John?”

 

Sarah looked at him for a moment, taking in Sherlock's defensive posture over the angel. How his eyes crackled with something dangerous and slightly savage. Though she did not fear a mere Human, it caused her to pause in what she had originally been planning to say. Something along the lines of  _“This needs to stop or I'm telling someone I don't know who but this is seriously illegal on so many levels where we're from.”_

 

Instead, she found herself seeing the _ **Dark Curse**_ that was making its way up John's spine and arms, and feeling a chill fill her with dread. She swallowed to cover the flash of horror in her eyes. She gripped her hands together in a pretend show of obedience.

 

“I was just wondering how long this.... _relationship_ has been going on... I mean, it's pretty obvious that you two are an item.... Why let him add me to the mix?”

She murmured, carefully choosing her words to sound like a smited lover. She let just an edge of bitterness fill her voice, refusing to look away from the detective as she glared. Mentally, Sarah was already murmuring a counter-curse to hold off the climbing of the disease-like tendrils crawling over John so that she could contact someone.

 

Sherlock looked at her, eyebrows raising in mock-surprise. Sarah could taste the acidity coming off the man, the possessiveness. She had been able to feel it actually since she had met Sherlock, although it had been muted in John's presence. Now it was unfettered and unreserved, evident on his face like a black mask. If Sarah hadn't known better, she'd say Sherlock was the Guardian out of the pair, with the way he seemed to hum with violent energy.

 

“John did not deceive you. We are _not_  together.” The detective clicked the _t_ in  _not_ , eyes narrowing hatefully before he could assume a mask of indifference. However the wall of ice didn't quite work on Sarah any more, as she caught the expression of evident distress on Sherlock's face as he turned to realise that John was shaking slightly in his sleep. A vulnerable look on his features, the detective looked not unlike a child as he hovered over John, afraid to touch and unable to draw away.

 

Sarah peered at him, something clicking together that she hadn't understood before. The words escaped her lips before she could stop them, incredulous that nothing had happened between the detective and his angel.

 

“But you  _want_ to be.”

 

Sherlock scoffed, his tone cold and distant. His hands tightened at his side in his chair.

“Am I suddenly to understand that  _you_  are a relationship expert?”

 

The angel realised that given the state of John's wings, she had assumed that the two men were already  _sleeping_ together. Now it was beginning to look like they hadn't even expressed their  _feelings._ Fighting the urge to pry further, she changed tactics, sensing the oncoming storm in the Human's eyes.

 

“Thank you for saving me. That's all I came.... that's all I wanted to say.”

 

__**Fiat Lux.** _ _

 

She mentally cast the spell, halting the climbing _**Curse.**_ At the slowing of its journey, some of the pain on John's face lessened. Sherlock relaxed visibly as the doctor sank back into the pillows, mumbling nonsense sleepily to himself before rolling over. The detective didn't hesitate this time to reach out and touch the edge of John's woollen jumper, brushing away an invisible piece of lint before turning back towards Sarah.

His expression was unimpressed with her, but apparently, he didn't feel like verbally sparring any more. Something seemed to have deflated from him, a tiredness marking him in purplish bruises about his eyes and the sickly tone of his skin.

His gaze was still challenging as he looked at her, daring her to say something, anything to set him off.

“I didn't do it for you. It was never for you.”

 

“....I know.”

 

“Do you?” Sherlock murmured, surprising the angel. His eyes glittered dangerously as he stood with sinuous grace, coming forward to tilt his head down at the smaller woman. The detective didn't smile as he rather calculatingly swept his gaze over her, making Sarah feel as though she was being skinned alive. If he could see her wings, he'd know they trembled slightly at his stare. As it was, he made a good job of seeming like he could, with the way those pale irises peeled apart every hope of defence she could think of.

His voice was like the rumble of distant thunder.

 

“I am a sociopath. I have been known to be deliberately manipulative and on occasion violent. I detest children with a burning passion and despise most adults with equal fervour. I cannot stand stupidity or ignorance, and could quite frankly achieve whatever social standing I choose, if I cared enough to actually do so. As it is, I am a consulting detective for Scotland Yard and hardly ever accept payment. As one peon so eloquently put it,  _“I get off on it.”_ Murder. Crime. Destruction and chaos. So why-”

 

He stepped closer, bending down slightly to look Sarah in the eye. Sherlock's voice was whisper-soft as he spoke, his breath brushing against her cheekbones, he was that close. His blue eyes were searching.

“Why does everyone _insist_ that I must have a heart when I so obviously don't?”

 

The angel's voice was almost pleading, as if she was begging him to understand. Understand what, Sarah didn't quite know.

“Everyone loves.  _Everyone_ _. Even you._ ”

 

He looked at her, scanning her face as if searching for some kind of deception. When he finally drew away, the angel felt as if a two tonne weight had just been lifted off of her chest. She dared to breathe as Sherlock looked at her almost pityingly, turning to give John the same, broken sort of gaze. His whisper was soft, more to himself than anyone else.

“You're both made from the same cloth it seems.” He murmured cryptically “But you're wrong. I do not  _love_ _._ I merely  _possess_. I promised John Watson  _danger_  and he mistook it for  _adventure._  Worse, I did not correct him. Because in the end, I am selfish, and I will continue to be selfish until my last breath.”

And he turned from her, tall figure seeming even more spindly and pale in the sick wash of hospital light. Sherlock Holmes smirked, and in that moment, he did not look Human.

 

Rather, there was a flickering in his irises that made the hair on the back of Sarah's neck rise, and irrationally her blood pulse faster through her veins.

 

If she hadn't been able to see his angel, lying prone and curled beside him, she might have screamed.

For Sherlock looked like a  **Demon** for an instant, all the more dangerous because he hid his curled horns and claws.

 

“Caring is not an advantage.” He finished triumphantly.

 

 

****

 

Sarah for a moment wondered if she was making the right choice, going to her Father as she left the hospital. There had been something infinitely tender in the detective's gaze as he had stared at his angel, so unaware of who he was really looking at. She felt a chill tug at the base of her spine, crawling up her wings as she looked up to the sky in thought. The clouds looked dark, rolling masses of grey-black on the horizon. Not unusual for London, but still they made her shiver. She could taste lightning in the air, sizzling with tension.

 

A storm was brewing, and Sarah wasn't sure what would happen when ozone finally hit atmosphere and chose to collide.

 

****

They both returned to ** _221 B_** by the evening.

 

John was unusually subdued in the cab ride home, his mouth twisted into a small frown as he resolutely stared out the window instead of at his Chosen. Sherlock was also silent, fingers ticking away on his knee in thought as he watched the blurring figures pass them by.

 

There is a tension in their every manner, every move. Hanging between them like snarled threads wrapped about their joints and throats and cutting off all circulation and breath. It made John's head pound, partly due to his headache, and partly due to the strange silence he was encountering in Sherlock's own mind. Usually, the detective's thoughts created a cocoon about him, tumbling endlessly from his head and allowing John to become lost in a sea of equations and theories and useless facts, tasting London in the strange and unique way that only Sherlock Holmes could. Now however he felt as if his ears were tamped with cotton, everything muted and muffled. He wondered if it was because of the slight concussion, or his own anger at his Chosen. He bit his lip and convinced himself that his worry was actually anger at being treated as if he was unimportant again.

 

He tried to tell himself it wasn't driving him mad that all he could hear was a quiet hum, teasing him but not telling him what was building up inside the detective's subconscious. Whatever it was, John was certain it was bad, as he had never been so abruptly cut off before. He tried pushing at the barriers surrounding Sherlock's head, and wasn't surprised when he found them unyielding as steel.

 

Still it irritated him, enough that he considered starting an argument just to have the relief of the detective's voice speaking to him. Before he could come up with a suitable jibe though he found Sherlock ending the silence for him. His voice was cool and detached.

 

“I'm leaving for Belarus in two days time.”

 

John felt something in his chest squeeze tightly, his mouth turning dry as he whipped his head around to stare at the detective in shock.

_Surely he doesn't mean...._

 

“How long will we be gone for?” John asked, careful to keep his voice as steady and neutral as possible so as to avoid panic. He looked up carefully through his lashes at the man sitting beside him, hoping against hope that his growing fear was unjustified, that he was wrong. However Sherlock's thoughts did not support that as they became if possible even more closed off, bound tightly with chains and padlocks that no mental weapon could hope to break. Never had John felt so cut off from his Chosen before in his life, and his Bond literally  _screamed_ in sudden agony that he had to mask with a wince and a scratch to his bandaged head.

 

Sherlock's voice was dead and cold. Flat like a tire that had hit the Kerb too fast.

“ _We_ will not be going.  _I_ will be making the trip alone.”

 

His tone offered no room for discussion, but John couldn't help but argue anyway.

“Why? Is there something dangerous going on-”

 

“I need to  _think._ ”

Sherlock snapped, the chilliness in his tone surprising the angel into silence. The detective was suddenly all edges, unable to sit still as he twitched and tapped his feet with impatience. Once he started, Sherlock didn't seem to know how to stop the acerbic and biting words from flowing from his tongue.

 

“You are around me  _twenty-four-seven,_ seven days a week, every breathing  _moment._ And while you are a brilliant conductor of light,  _I can't think straight around you-_ You're always in my head, always around me, always pointing me in the morally right direction and treating me like some kind of  _pet_ that has to be monitored-”

 

“Sherlock, you know I don't think that-”

 

“You  _pity_  me!” His voice, strong and vicious and suddenly vibrating with fury, cut through John's objection.

 

“You think that I need to be  _babysat,_ that I can't get by just fine on my own! I've survived for  _years_ on my own and have held my own, I do not need to be coddled. Are you planning on just putting a leash around my neck? Hold me captive like some kind of prisoner?”

 

John tried not to respond with  _No you haven't_ under his breath. There was a nervousness in Sherlock's thoughts, a kind of unstable droning that sounded like a thousand wasps swarming themselves into a tizzy. The angel scrambled not to become swamped by its acidity, trying to keep a level head even when his own instincts demanded that he  _stop this_ by any means possible.

 

“Sherlock is this about me getting kidnapped? Because if it is I can assure you that it's fine-”

 

“ _Please.”_

 

The detective murmured quietly, breaking through John's beginning of a lecture and fixing him with a strained, vulnerable stare.

John felt his mouth snap shut in surprise, registering the plea with a numb sort of shock that jolted from the base of his spine to the tips of his wings. He felt his feathers flash a quick but vivid pearl-grey, marking Sherlock's humility in begging like a branded hand-print. The angel felt he argument die in his throat as he looked at his Chosen, suddenly seeing how tired Sherlock's expression was.

He looked like a man approaching forty instead of just passing thirty, haggard and stressed. It was a strange expression on Sherlock's face, one that didn't quite suit him. Though most wouldn't have noticed it, John did. He couldn't help but see it because somehow, he knew he had caused it. A slow twisting feeling curled in his gut, and when he spoke his voice was low, subdued.

 

“What do you need?”

 

The silent question rang between them, floating in the air.

_You'll come back, right?_

 

Sherlock smiled, the expression small and fleeting, but his answer was just a hair warmer than it had been before. The tension in his spine slumped into relaxation as he realised his actions would not be fought, although he kept the same aloof look on his face. The detective turned up his coat collar to hide his relief. The small smile he couldn't help showed a tender humanity that he dare not reveal to anyone, even John. 

 

“Just my luggage.... and a box....”

 

_Of course I will. Obvious John, really._

 

And though the angel wasn't happy, he wasn't quite so distressed either. They spent the rest of the cab ride in silence, although it isn't quite the same angry kind from before. It's the start of forgiveness, or at least the promise of it when Sherlock returned. The detective's hands resume their tapping dance, only now they tap at his side instead of on his knee.

John tried to pretend that he didn't notice how they seemed to skirt towards his own hand every now and again, only to draw away as if burned.

 

He didn't dare feed the foolish hope in his chest, lest it become something he couldn't control. A fire instead of a flame.

The flame that whispered to him that this felt  _right._

_That this felt **Human.**_

 

 

****

 

The night brought the howling of wolves in the dark, the sound chilling the air and turning it to frost as lithe bodies loped in the shadows on the hunt. If one was not looking too closely, they appeared to look not unlike large dogs. Though dogs did not have the golden glint that shone like a full moon in Gladstone's eyes, nor did their growls sound like the starting up of a motor bike as it reverberated through the air.

 

She was tracking the new scent, the one her Master had told her to start practising with so she'd be able to track his target with ease. It was an angel, she could tell by the warm flavour that wafted through her nose already, and her inner beast licked its lips with anticipation for the day it could strike and kill. It was always the angel blood that sang to her more, sending the wolf into craving and longing to taste and tear. It sent a shiver up her spine of rapture and delight, one that she couldn't control when she was in her animalistic state. The collar about her neck jangled slightly at the movement. Gladstone froze to sniff the fog for signs of life.

 

Despite her pack brethren moving through the darkness, she could sense no one about. Unusual for London, as even at night Humans usually scurried about here and there, making their way. However she supposed that even Humans were probably starting to sense the oncoming War that was inevitably going to start soon, and some baser instinct could be keeping them inside. After all light, even though it was little more than an illusion, seemed to offer them some semblance of safety.

 

Gladstone couldn't care less when she was in this form. The beast could kill with just as much finesse in broad daylight as it could after dusk. Her powerful hind legs allowed her to hop from the top of a rubbish bin to a low-hanging roof, and she surveyed quickly the outline of the other wolves even as her ears pricked for the slightest disturbance. In the moonlight, she was a large and shadowy creature, fur such a dark shade of brown it was almost black, and eyes glowing like twin coals. The bristle of her hackles rose as she let loose a low, moaning howl that started from deep within her belly and travelled up her throat, alerting the others in her pack that she found her scent and would be going at it alone.

 

After a moment, other cries filled the night, drifting into the air in assertion before fading away. Satisfied, Gladstone turned and leapt to the next roof, paws barely touching the ground as she ran, the threat of her Master's words lingering in what little of her Human mind there was.

 

_Be ready to bring him to me, or I'll make you into shoes._

 

Mycroft Holmes was called to check the CCTV scans the next morning. A job that was beneath him, but the urgency of his underling's voice brought him without hesitation. He watched in disbelief as the grainy black-and-white footage showed something that made absolutely no sense in the light of the moon.

A large, streaking black shape, decidedly canine. Gold eyes. The film footage cutting short as the camera was crushed between a massive pair of jaws and impossibly sharp teeth.

 

The British Government for just a moment felt something akin to fear as he snapped that his higher-ups be contacted, mouth going dry.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

 

And for some reason, Mycroft couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, his little brother was involved.

 


	21. The Beginning Of The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there we go! all up and ready to read! :3   
> Hope you enjoy!  
> Song is Howl by Florence And The Machine :)

_If you could only see the beast you've made of me  
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free  
Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart  
drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart_

_My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in  
You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl  
My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in  
You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to_

  
_Howl, howl_   
_Howl, howl_

_Now there's no holding back, I'm making to attack_   
_My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out_   
_The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound_   
_I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground_

_like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins_   
_I want to find you tear out all your tenderness_

_And howl, howl_   
_Howl, howl_   


 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trip to Belarus of course was an excuse.

  
  


Even John wasn't that thick, Sherlock knew he was aware that something was up. It was obvious in the way the doctor lingered about him the night of his departure, unwilling to go to bed, not quite willing to sit beside the detective as he lay on the couch and reflected. It had been a quiet night, one filled with a tension that thrummed like a piano wire pulled tautly between them. Words left unspoken seemed to ink themselves into the very wallpaper of the flat.

  
  


Mrs. Hudson left the two of them alone that night, sensing the silent discomfort. John tried to feel like he wasn't willingly about to hand Sherlock over to a pack of wolves even as he helped with the packing.

  
  


When the cab came, it glowed darkly in the frosted night air. Sherlock was a shadowed figure along the gleaming pavement of Baker Street, like a phantom of onyx and ivory. He did not see how John's wings stretched as if to shield him one final time as they looked at each other, but he saw the conflicting emotions written along the man's face.

  
  


For just a moment, Sherlock considered hugging him. He thought about how much he'd like to wipe away those lines of worry that marked John's skin, the ones that looked like they had been there for far too long. 

  
  


Then the weight of the box he carried tucked under his arm grounded him back to earth, and the detective left without so much as an outspoken goodbye.

The trip had seemed unnecessarily long and cold somehow, without the warmth of his blogger by his side.

  
  


Sherlock excused the gnawing feeling in his chest as nothing more than indigestion.

  
  


****

It was many miles away from Baker Street that a different kind of goodbye was taking place. Ten figures stood gathered in a cluster atop of a lonely eastern flat, invisible to most and yet solid to each other as they stood in a loosely-formed ring. The wings of eight of them were dazzling, glittering ethereally in the frosted night and seeming to shield the centre of the ring where two figures crouched. However, the young man with eyes that were violet-blue didn't seem to be particularly weak, given the fact that his voice carried with it the crackle of thunder.

  
  


Sarah might have cowered away from her Father as she had never seen him like this, except that she was already cowering away from the eight archangels staring at her with pale, opalescent eyes.

  
  


Her own wings twitched under their gazes, bright colours seeming dull and lifeless next to the sheer glow of light tracing along their feathers. Again she wondered if she had done the right thing, to come here.

  
  


Then she thought of that pale human, curling protectively about his angel as if it was  _his_ job to protect him, and she found her spine straightening.

  
  


God looked to the young angel intently, mouth a thin line as he rubbed his hand over his eyes and sighed. His expression was pained.

  
  


“You're  _sure_  what you saw?”

 

Angels could not lie directly to their Father, but sometimes they misread things. It had happened before. However Sarah's blue eyes were steady and certain as she lifted her chin, shoulders stiff as her wings flashed determined gold.

  
  


“Affirmative. Watson's turning  _ **Dark.**_ ”

  
  


Orifiel's green eyes flashed as she stepped forward, voice stern as she looked to her brother's. Her voice was commanding.

  
  


“Then he must be  _ **Banished**_ , it is out laws-”

  
  


“I won't until I've spoken to him.”

  
  


The sharp tone in God's voice caused the other angels to look at him in some surprise, Michael's eyebrows lowering in faint confusion.

  
  


“He did pass through  _ **Scheol**_ , and did exceedingly well. He would make a valuable soldier if the battle truly is coming-”

  
  


A gruff voice interrupted him, Uriel's dark black hair blowing about his shoulders as he crossed his arms over his chest in defiance.

  
  


“It's that kind of that kind of talk that made us trust Gabriel, and thanks to him my face won't ever be the same.”

The shining scar that cut along like a seam across the angel's cheek and nose glinted ferociously in the dark. His deep baritone mirrored the silver-metallic glint to his wings, which stretched in a huge, albatross-like wingspan that was at once intimidating as well as strangely graceful.

  
  


God however, was not to be cowed.

“And the whole mentality of kill first ask questions later is how millions of Humans and angel alike were murdered. Do you not recall The War? Or have you been asleep and sedentary for so long that you cannot remember the screaming of the entire world tearing itself apart?” The man's voice was a hiss, and the angels flinched slightly, hearing the power radiating through their bones. Sarah had shrunk away, unused to such an exchange. She felt like a rabbit standing next to a pack of wolves.

  
  


After a moment, she managed to gather herself enough to speak.

“There's more.... I- I'm not sure.... but there was a  _ **Curse**_ surrounding John. I don't know what or who put it there.... but it looked like  _ **Olde Magic.**_ Something a regular Demon can't just use.”

  
  


Her Father's eyes narrowed, and he took to looking at his hands before they tightened into fists.

“We had a  _deal_ , the bastard.”

He muttered as if to himself, and lightning turned his eyes glowing silver-white as he suddenly snarled. It illuminated London, a mighty crack thundering in the sky as rain began to pelt downwards in a steady rush.

“I'll kill him.  _I swear on my life._ If he does this.....”

  
  


For a moment, the creator of the universe looked momentarily lost and weary as he clutched at his hair, spinning in place as he paced in a tight box in the centre of his meeting. He did not speak, not until finally Raphael, a thin, elfin angel with hair dark like moleskin, cleared his throat.

  
  


“Father, what's happening?”

  
  


God's voice was grim, and he rocked on his heels as he looked at his children. His eyes flickered with dread as he looked into the future, watched it slowly unravelling until only blackness could be seen. Only the infinite bleak of space. His response was as cold as steel.

  
  


“He's planning on killing us all.”

  
  


Michael, one of the oldest angels, seemed to understand. A breath hissed through his teeth as he clutched at his blade, golden eyes darkening to embers as he spoke.

“ _His Chosen.”_

  
  


****

Crow did not often bother to pay much attention to people other than his Chosen. It was the nature of angels, normal to cling and possess deeply. Humans had many loves, but angels felt deeply, with the whole of their being. It was for this reason that when he had first been assigned to caring for one Sherlock Holmes during John's absence, he had felt a mixture of discomfort and slight resentment towards the job. He did not like the  _Magic_ that forcibly tore his loyalties in half, dividing him neatly down the centre so he could not help but feel pity for the wraith that came to live under his protection.

  
  


When Sherlock had first met him, he had been little more than a ghost. A pale shadow, made up of monochrome patches of dark and light. Torn not only from his angel unknowingly but forced to watch as the police fished his boyfriend's body out from the river (the fact that they found someone else alongside the boy only served to make things worse). In short, Sherlock had been the aftermath of a bomb, all grey ash and broken eyes staring numbly out from a corpse.

And though Crow was loathe to admit it to this day, he saw the young teen and couldn't help but see Addie once again, and knew Greg thought the same thing.

  
  


That cold night had been the first time Sherlock and Detective Lestrade met each other since they were children. Yet at first, the D.I hadn't recognised the small boy that had been vomiting razor blades in the worn and torn-apart junkie that he saw standing to the side by the Thames. In fact, he might not have noticed the teen's presence at all, if not for the fact that tears streamed down Sherlock's face silently, running down the sharp planes of his cheekbones before the young man turned and fled before the police could bother to question him.

  
  


To this day, Crow wondered what might have happened if Lestrade had recognised the boy just a little bit earlier.

  
  


****

John wandered in his sleep, coasting lightly along, adrift in the ocean of his own mind. He wasn't sure why sleeping was like this for him, or if all humans actually dreamt like this: Lucid, able to control the events. Though only to a certain extent. He didn't choose the desert he now wandered in, its likeness to  _ **Scheol  **_too similar to be completely coincidence. However in his dream, he let himself have Sherlock for a companion, listening to the detective rattle off observations about his inner psyche to soothe constant ache that came from being separated from his Chosen. He hadn't wanted to sleep, in fact he had been avoiding it since Sherlock left, but finally his human form had been unable to take any more abuse and collapsed on him, the angel having only just made it to bed.

  
  


Sand blew golden motes into the air, forming shapes of things that were almost solid and yet not. John caught the dissolving image of Mycroft and a younger Sherlock chasing after each other after church, and the warmth of Harry's smile as she told him about Clara. Sometimes the sand formed darker things too, and he shielded Sherlock from view of them, the slithering beasts and snarling creatures remnants of the horrors he'd had to face.

  
  


The detective in his dreams wore the plum-coloured shirt that John really did admire, as well as dark trousers despite the heat. He did not seem to sweat despite the heat, and neither did John for that matter when he bothered to look at himself. As he did so, he heard his Chosen snort, and he looked at him with a dark brow raised as he gestured to the desert surrounding them.

  
  


“This is  _your_  dream, John. Why would you dream heat exhaustion?”

  
  


The angel supposed he had a point, though the fact that Sherlock was a righteous git even in his sleep seemed ironic to John and slightly pathetic. He straightened, wings flashing from their normal colours to a playful orange.

“Really? I thought I'd be taller here.”

  
  


Dream-Sherlock smirked, eyes flashing in amusement as they came to rest a sudden tree that sprung up from the heat-blasted sand. Coming to rest under it, the angel sighed as he stretched out his wings, the muscles popping slightly from exertion even as he motioned for the detective to sit with him. Sherlock did, and since John was dreaming and he was alone, he wrapped Sherlock up into a sudden embrace and leaned into the crook of his shoulder. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke and formaldehyde tickled his nose. John sighed.

  
  


“I miss you already.”

  
  


After a moment, Sherlock's arms responded the gesture. John could feel their warmth, despite the fact that he was only sleeping. The detective's voice was soft and unsure.

“I'm sure I miss you too. John-”

  
  


“No. Whatever you're going to say, shut up. I don't want to think right now. I don't want to face it.”

  
  


He mumbled against the crook of the man's neck, fingers clutching against the fabric of the his shirt and probably ruining it. However, true to the real Sherlock's personality, John's hallucination wasn't keen on letting go. After a moment he tried again, voice quiet and painfully gentle, the voice that John both longed and dreaded to hear coming from his Chosen's lips.

  
  


“You're going to wind up hurting us both.”

  
  


The angel's voice was thick, caught in his throat. He didn't notice the tendril of black that was curling itself about his leg. Didn't notice how the blazing sun was beginning to set on the glow of his dream, darkness encroaching the edges.

  
  


“I know.” He whispered, hating the way his heart twisted in his chest.

“I know, but I don't know what to do. I can't leave you.  _I can't._ It's physically impossible.”

 

Pale fingers carded through his hair, delicate and soft. It was so realistic, for a moment John forgot himself and leaned into the touch. A noise, too low for human ears to hear, rumbled from his chest. His Sherlock heard it and returned with the same tone.

 

“If an angel leaves his human, both of them die. I know. We know that. But John-”

 

And they drew apart, and John found himself being gathered up so that his forehead was touching Sherlock's, and his eyes were staring into those blue-green irises. John watched as those irises grew dark, pupiless, blotting out even the suggestion of light as slowly the detective's lips grazed his. Sherlock's voice was a low growl, humming against John's mouth and transforming into something feral and chilling as the arms that once cradled him turned to claws.

 

The angel cried out, the Demon that was holding him in place crushing the sound as his tongue lapped at the blood that stemmed from where it had bitten. Its purr echoed in John's mind. He felt the air leave him, oxygen squeezed out of his chest as ice filled his lungs, turning them to lead. He was no longer kissing Sherlock, instead he was looking at a cat-like grin, pointed teeth twisting to bite into his shoulder unforgivably as John threw his head back and howled in torment. He felt hands that should never touch him so intimately brush his wings, burning him, tainting his feathers so they shuddered away. It was too much.

Too much.

It hurt,  _God_ it hurt.

 

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Everything felt wrong. John wanted to vomit, wanted to beg those hands to stop, wanted to plead for them to let go of the sensitive ridge of downy fluff they clung to, right where sinew turned into bone.

 

And a voice he did not recognise purred in his ear, pressed him into the now coal-black sand, even as a tongue lazily rasped over the bite-mark that was already healing on his shoulder.

 

“ _When did you not realise you were playing straight into your Father's hands?”_

 

 

John woke with a scream, the agony in his shoulder immediately proving that somehow, what had happened hadn't been quite so dream-like after all.

 

He almost didn't notice the glowing cold eyes in the corner of his room, or the rumbling snarl of a predator finally getting the chance to circle in on her kill.

 

The angel turned just in time to see a flash of teeth, and then a two-tonne massive creature of claws and fur lunged for his bed.

 

Gladstone had finally gotten her orders.

 

****

 

The angel whimpered before him, bloodtained and beaten. Curled into the blood-slicked stone, he no longer looked like a messenger of the Lord. Rather, he looked not unlike a drowned rat, tired eyes staring straight ahead at nothing, wings dull and dirty and grey. The chains that wrapped about his throat and hands shook with his shivers, jingling softly as Jim smirked. 

 

The pathetic creature wailed when it saw him, tried in vain to get away. Its dark eyes were wild, savage and hurting as it curled inwards on itself. Upon this, one could see that it wasn't an angel at all. Rather, a half-breed. One wing had grown out, but the other was smaller, stunted and broken. Nephilim. Almost a pure-blood.

Rare.

Its skinny ribs heaved in silent tears.

The Devil tutted softly.

 

"Now, now. Just one more vial of blood. Then you're done... can't really give any more...." And he drew the needle from thin air, grabbing the half-breed uncerimoniously by the neck and slamming him into the brick wall. The creature choked, begging for mercy, hands trying in vain to claw the steel grip away from their throat. A feral grin fixed on Jim's face, and he wasted no time in plunging the syringe into the Nephilim's neck. The creature, really no more than a child, sobbed as their blood both brackish and glittering filled the vial. 

When he was done, he let the heap of bones and skin slump to their knees. 

 

Jim's voice was careless as he whistled. Out of the shadows came a few of his faithful Weres, lamp-like eyes glowing in the dark. Their mouths drooled in hunger, their minds lost with the madness of starvation.

His voice was sing-song as he gave his orders.

_"Kill it."_

 

The child's screams could be heard in the dark tunnels, followed by the savage sound of flesh tearing flesh, even as he twirled the vial absently between his fingers. 

He could hear the howling of the full moon rising even as he stepped outside, the vibrations almost loud enough for a human to hear, if they cared to notice.

The Devil lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, the smoke curling about his ears. 

He grinned up at the stars. 

 

"Soon, it will all burn..... This boring world..... all too soon...."

 

 

 


	22. While John was Gone Part~ 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter I'm not completely satisfied with... still... I've futz'ed about with it long enough.... ^.^''
> 
> This will be a three-parter. :3
> 
> Song is under the water by the pretty reckless.

 

  
_Don't let the water drag you down_   
_Broken lines, across my mirror_   
_Show my face, all red and bruised_   
_And though I screamed and I screamed, well no one came running_   


  
_No I wasn't saved, I wasn't safe from you_   
_Don't let the water drag you down (Don't let the water drag you down)_   
_Don't let the water drag you down_   
_Don't let me drown, don't let me drown in the waves, oh_   
_I could be found, I could be what you had saved_   
_Saved, Saved, Saved_   


  
_Lay my head, under the water_   
_Aloud I pray, for calamities_   
_And when I wake from this dream, with chains all around me_   
_No, I've never been, I've never been free_   
_No, I've never been, I've never been free_   
_No, I've never been, I've never been free_   


 

 

 

He sat cross-legged in his hotel room, pale hands folded under his chin as he looked straight ahead. Stared fixedly. In the dim light from the lamp shade, the man is a shadow of smoky grey, a ghost against pale white sheets. It was a nice room, Mycroft didn't skimp (especially when Sherlock borrowed his card) but the warmth that the room should have held seemed absent to Sherlock. Rather, it was absorbed from the room, all by the seemingly harmless little box that sat itself in the chair at the other end of the room. Its contents was still locked, but one pale hand twirled a little silver key between delicate fingers. Sherlock sat and thought, lips pursed tightly.

 

It was now or never.

He knew he had to make a decision, and yet every muscle in his body was heavy and frozen as lead. It was like time had somehow slowed, trickled into little more than honey dripping from a spoon, and Sherlock was only waiting for it to fall.

Mutterings, echoes of time itched under his skin. Vague images of days he did not remember well. He longed for a cigarette. He feared what other memories might surface if he were to indulge.

 

_Caring is not an advantage._

 

_**Afghanistan or Iraq?** _

_**H-how did you-** _

 

_Are you sure you want this 'Lock?_

 

_Do it....._

 

His eyes closed, and he inhaled sharply through his teeth as he felt the cool metal of the key in his grip. He couldn't go back to Baker Street until he had made a choice. It wasn't fair. Not to John. It would not be right. He had tried to keep John Watson away, but he saw now he had only succeeded in pulling him closer. Had he really denied himself so long of friends and affection that he was willing to potentially destroy everything he had ever gained?

 

The key twirling in his hand seemed to think so.

 

And he would lose  _everything_ too, if something even went slightly wrong. He'd lose John, and those odds alone make something inside Sherlock twist in nausea and borderline physical pain. It was agony even considering it. Like a knife wound, hovering just about the detective's chest. He wasn't sure when those kinds of feelings began to happen around John Watson, rather it was easier to pinpoint when he couldn't picture life without them. From the moment the man had stepped into St. Bart's hospital he had felt as if something in the very gravity of the Earth had shifted, tilted slightly towards the army doctor. Like the golden presence of the sun had been slowly permeated with the colour of the man's hair, and the sky tinted with the shade of his eyes. Over time,  _John_  had become synonymous with  _home_ , and Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to willingly put that to risk.

 

He was addictive by nature. Had struggled with temptation for most of his life. It was the fault of being like him, wanting to taste everything, touch everything, experience and feel each want and crave for himself. He lived on it, 'got off on it' as one Sally Donovan would say, and he had never really lost that need to want. Really, his whole life had been bouncing from one addiction to another, some better than others.

 

Except now his addiction was John, and that in itself was a conundrum.

Because people were supposed to try and give up addictions. Being dependent on something was a sign of weakness, a mark of the losing half.

Yet Sherlock did not want to give John up.

 

_That's the thing about cigarettes and many things. They start out feeling awful...... but it's only when you can't imagine life without them that you become truly fucked._

 

He gripped his head in his hands, pulling loosely at the inky dark curls and grimacing. That voice.

Why was it always _that_ voice?

 

He could picture him too, because Sherlock Holmes could picture anyone he'd ever met if necessary, draw them from thin air. Those sea-green eyes watched him carefully from the corner of the room, blonde curls appearing cherubic about his face. His grin however had never been and never will be angelic, and he sat by the box cross-legged, guarding it.

 

Keeping it safe.

 

“ _You have to let me go.”_

Imaginary Victor said, and Sherlock felt his breath leave him in a shuddering rush. He couldn't look directly at the figure, rather his eyes latched onto the box. Its silver edges glinted dully. His whisper was towards himself, but his imagination laughed at him, tossing its blonde curls back.

 

“I've tried.”

 

When Victor stopped laughing, he was replaced by John's steady presence. Except his flatmate's eyes were filled with pain.

 

“ _Please Sherlock. ”_

 

He could picture it clearly. The cadence of his frown, the dip of worry lines along his forehead and brow. How that hand would tremble slightly with concern.

 

And in the end, it was John's voice and not Victor's that lead the detective to open the box.

It was what compelled him to reach inside, pulling out the first object among many and cradling it in his hands.

 

It was a single blue-green feather.

 

****

_**The Night Of Victor Trevor's Suicide.** _

 

That was what that rainy evening will forever be remembered as to Sherlock. He could remember how the very sky had seemed to open down upon London, weeping rain in torrents as he stood on the edge of the bridge, teetering between safety and danger. His legs were strangely numb from the knees down. Somehow, he thought he should be more concerned about that.

 

He wasn't.

He leaned forward speculatively, staring at the dark waters below. There was nothing to be seen. His knuckles were white as they held his body-weight, solid and yet tenuous as he leaned like a bowed length of rope over the precipice. He thought his heart should be pounding at such a height.

 

It wasn't.

 

He thought he might be shaking though, but that could be from the after-affects of the drug Victor had given him. To think the name caused a spike of something hot and unpleasant to roll in Sherlock's stomach. He resolutely vowed to delete its sound.

 

Would not let it haunt him, at least not in these final moments.

 

He realised distantly that he was still in his pyjamas. They clung to him like a second skin, sticking matted to his arms and legs like a veil. Freezing cold. All except for the scarf, that he had automatically wrapped about his throat. That was still warm, despite being wet. His fingers found its edges, clutched at them tightly as he hissed a breath into his chest.

 

_So that wherever you are, you never get cold or lonely again._

 

Alone.

 

_**I won't get cold or lonely. I have you. _Idiot_.** _

 

The street was silent, dark. Nothing moved. Not even a hint of a whisper.

 

He was so alone.

 

He knew what would probably be found washed up from the Thames if he chose to wait. Knew who'd he'd have to identify. And he would too, he would recognise that face even in the dark on a starless night. Recognise that smile, even if it was twisted with rigor mortis. Even if it was broken into pieces beyond repair.

 

Victor had used to sing nursery rhymes to himself, little mindless tunes his mother had once sung to him. One echoed in Sherlock's head.

 

_Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after...._

 

His own lips twisted into a small sneer. He had never much cared for stories. The wind bit at him, seeming to tug him closer over the rail. Calling him, pushing him from behind.

 

_I always found Romeo and Juliet stupid._

Vict-no-  _he_ had once said, holding up the paper-backed play in his hands and sighing. At the time, Sherlock had snorted.

 

_Considering they claim to be in love after merely two or three days of knowing each other and die for the other by the end of the week, I can see why._

 

Yet his partner had shaken his head, sea-green eyes glittering.

_That's not why. I mean, it's partly it, but it's not the main reason._

 

Sherlock remembered his confusion, masked by interest.

_Tell me then, for what other reason were Romeo and Juliet sentimental morons who couldn't be bothered to see sense?_

 

Victor had been silent, staring at the cigarette in his hand for just a moment longer than what could be considered idle contemplation. When he spoke, his voice was low.

 

_There was so much.... too much potential... they both grew up with so many things... so many people to call friends. They were never alone... and yet they gave it all up... They gave it up without even thinking. And no one saved them. No one even really tried._

 

He had scowled, as if the very idea was at once unnerving to him as it was foolish.

 

_That's why I can't stand the play. They had so much to aim for, even Juliet, and yet it all came crumbling down when they decided to have sex. That's why I can't respect them. For all of the possibilities, in the end they couldn't see past their own pain._

 

_**So why did you do this to me? Why did no one save me from you?** _

 

Sherlock wanted to ask, and yet he did not know how to voice the question. It was foolish really.

Dead men didn't talk. The rain water was beginning to slick his grip...

 

It would be so  _easy_....

He knew exactly how many bones he'd likely break when he hit the water.

A voice distracted him from his thoughts. Though it wasn't commanding, there was something about it that pulled the shadow of a young man out from the inside of his thoughts. Something that called him like a bell despite the fact that his Mind-Palace was in shambles and he had never felt so completely shattered and numb.

 

 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Wearily, Sherlock turned, a small figure standing on the side of the road with their hands in their pockets casually. A child. He blinked, the question of why a small boy would be alone in the middle of London in the early hours of the morning not seeming to quite register as the detective took in his features. Strawberry-blonde hair curled about the boy's ears in a mop, freckled face sporting deep lavender-blue eyes that for some reason made Sherlock feel not unlike a child himself. The boy wore a yellow raincoat and wellies, bright in the dark. A splash of colour in a world of grey. He looked at Sherlock with interest, clearly not realising what the teen was about to do.

 

Or maybe he did, and that was why he was so calm.

 

It was a moment before Sherlock could find the words to reply.

“Don't you have some place to go? Home maybe?”

 

 

Though he was not sentimental in nature, Sherlock felt his stomach twist strangely at the idea of lunging off of a bridge in front of a child. In fact, the whole idea was suddenly making him feel rather physically ill. He blinked slowly, trying to shake off the sensation as the boy continued to look at him. Those wide eyes seemed to come closer, even if physically the boy did not move from where he stood.

 

“Don't  _you?_ ”

 

The boy shot back instead of replying, grinning slightly when Sherlock scowled and didn't respond. The child's head tilted to side as the teen with the blue coat shuffled in the cold, wrapping a hand about his middle as the chill of the night struck him. The boy's voice was low and thoughtful as he peered up at the rain that fell in sheets about them.

“You could use a coat.”

 

He muttered contemplatively, and to that Sherlock tensed before seeming to look again at the dark waters below. His breath came out in a fogged sigh.

 

“Doesn't matter. Not any more. Not that cold....”

 

“To me, you're freezing.”

The boy said plainly, and Sherlock for a moment wondered if he meant it literally or with some deeper meaning. Either way, the boy seemed unconcerned by how perilously close the teen before him was toying with death.

 

Instead, he seemed far more focused on asking questions. As well as inflicting his opinions on others.

“Why do you think you're alone?”

 

Sherlock blinked, wondering how the boy managed to read his thoughts. Still, he replied.

“Because I am. I have no one.”

 

And at the moment, it was true. Not even an angel stood by Sherlock's side, but not because his angel was lacking. Rather, it was because John was desperate to protect him, desperate to need him. The boy smiled secretively.

 

“But you will have someone soon.”

 

The teen snorted, the sound harsh and bitter.

“Doubtful. Alone's all I've ever had.”

 

He seemed to be always chasing that foreign concept. The lie that was  _companionship._

He wasn't sure why.

 

“What about your brother?” The boy asked calmly, rocking on his heels. Sherlock thought about asking how the boy knew about Mycroft, but the question slipped through his thoughts like water through a strainer. Instead, he found himself glossing over it, retorting hotly.

“Mycroft won't care. Never did. He's an arrogant git and I don't need him.”

 

“And yet at this moment he is rather frantically calling the police on your behalf.” The boy murmured, face tilting towards a CCTV camera that Sherlock had taken no notice of before. It was turned in their direction, light flashing frantically as if it could somehow convey the panic of the owner behind it. He glowered, hoisting himself back behind the safety rail to stalk over to the child.

 

His footsteps were aggressive as he rather unceremoniously grabbed the child by the collar of his jacket, lifting him with a surprising amount of strength so that the boy was almost at his height. Sherlock's green-blue eyes flashed, and he snarled with sudden aggression that rang suspiciously like someone else's voice as he all but roared

 

“You think you possibly understand?! Do you know what it's like? To be constantly-”

 

Then his throat closed hotly, refusing to work as some of the icy numbness Sherlock had worn over himself like a cloak slipped away. He choked on the heat, resisting the pressure that was building in it and locking his emotions once again just beneath the surface. The boy looked up at him, completely limp as a ragdoll, his head tilted back as he let the teen support his weight. His voice was small but carried. It held a vague memory of a quote that was spoken to him very long ago. The accent he put on reminded him strongly of a certain homeless girl.

 

“You's got friends all about if you only look, despite watch'a say.”

 

 

He wanted to ask how he knew. Sherlock wanted to shake the answer out of the child, strike responses from him. But these were not good thoughts, and something heavy and lethargic was already overcoming him. His shoulders sagged, suddenly too weighted to support themselves, and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. Distantly, he supposed it was shock. It would explain why his heart felt like it was tumbling down from the top of a cliff. He wasn't sure when the boy transformed into a huge, golden lion with piercing blue eyes. Instead he only felt it when he was curled up against the massive animal's hide, how the warmth of it seemed to seep into his very bones, cloak him from danger. He felt like he was almost glowing with it. Wearily, his dark curls rested atop the animal's flank, body seeking more of the strange tingling safe feeling through touch.

 

Distantly, a small part of his brain marvelled, amazed and confused at what he was seeing before him. However a larger part of him was half-asleep, uncaring and not worried, content to float in the blissful calm that surrounded the massive animal like a blanket. He listened to that part, and was distantly aware even as salty tears slid down his cheeks that he was crying. The tears streamed down his cheeks, hot rivulets as his lips parted in a silent scream that still drove his throat red and raw and scratched. It filled Sherlock's mind, the blackest waves of his grief capsizing him. And yet he did not drown. Could not.  Something held him afloat, held his hand through it. He could feel it, a warmth just at the base of his neck. He felt the lion's purr, like the kick-start to a motor engine, rumble down his spine.

 

A voice spoke in his thoughts.

 

_**I needed to stop you. It is not yet your time to Fall Sherlock Holmes. It is okay to cry now, but you must be strong for the times that will come.** _

 

_What time?_

 

His thoughts asked, and in return images flickered in his head. Things that did not make sense and yet were filled with emotion in their attachments. Him running down a darkened alleyway. He's older, has a new coat... there's someone running beside him. When the man crossed into a street light for a moment Sherlock could see the outline of two beautiful wings arching from his spine. In another image that same man was smiling at him, speaking words that cannot be made out. He had blue eyes, the colour of a summer sky. Cloudless.

 

Those eyes turned blood-red as the scene shifted, and blood and smoke fill the teen's nostrils. There's brimstone. People were screaming, crying. Running in every direction. They clutched at children and hid behind decimated vehicles, their hair matted with ash and their eyes wild with terror. The sky was pitch black. Sherlock looked down with horror and saw he was cradling a body to his chest. The man that had been giving him such a gentle smile only a moment ago now lay crumpled in his arms, his head bashed in as if it had been slammed against concrete. Those beautiful wings that had caught Sherlock's eye were now crumpled and broken. He couldn't breathe. He felt like his chest was going to tear into several pieces. Iron-hot nausea rippled up his throat. His hands desperately cradled the  _angel's_ face between his fingers. For a moment, he caught the echo of a name, screamed over the wails of a city gone to hell. Shrieked like the only note of horror over everything becoming irrevocably shattered.

 

_**JOHN.** _

 

When he opened his eyes, he felt the lion slowly fading away. Sleep filled Sherlock's limbs, dragging him under. He was curled in an alleyway by the bridge, the night no longer too cold to sleep for a while. And sleep he did, a swirling and chaotic cocktail of emotions glossing over his skin. Already he was forgetting. Already the name he had just learned was slipping through his fingers like sand.  His eyes slid closed against his will. A voice muttered in his ear, low and comforting.

 

_**Do not fight it. Just sleep for now, my son. Sleep.... And when the time comes, this will let you remember.** _

 

Something was placed in his hands. His cool fingers were momentarily brushed by fire too hot to be real.

 

When Sherlock woke up, he did not remember the lion or the strange child out by the bridge.

Instead, he looked at the blue-green, iridescent feather in his hand and irrationally clutched it to his chest, keeping it clean from the grime and mud.

 

And distantly he heard sirens wail, and knew that the police were on their way.

 

And filled with a sudden resolve, Sherlock Holmes became determined to help them find Victor.

 

If only because the man had promised to love him until the end of his life.

 

It seemed only fair that Sherlock repay the small favour.  


	23. While John was gone part~ 2 (Shattered Frames)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continued trip into the past... :3
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!! Next chapter will be mostly in Greg's POV (as is this one) and then it will be back to the conclusion of the great game :)
> 
> Song is The Crow and The butterfly by shinedown....

  
_took all your pictures off the wall_  
 _and wrapped them in a news paper blanket_  
 _I haven't slept in what seems like a century,_  
 _and now I can barely breathe_

 

_Just like a crow chasing the butterfly_  
 _dandelions lost in the summer sky_  
 _When you and I were getting high as outer space,_  
 _I never thought you'd slip away_  
 _I guess I was just a little too late_

_Your words still serenade me,_  
 _Your lullabies won't let me sleep_  
 _I've never heard such a haunting melody._  
 _Oh, it's killing me_  
 _You know I can barely breathe_  


 

 

Greg Lestrade was freezing the instant he stepped out of the warm comfort of the police cruiser, the air seeming to be the type that caused all heat to be leached out of the blood and his very breath turn into crystals before him. He shivered violently even before he was fully outside the vehicle, the wind bitter and chill ass a poisonous kiss as he peered out into the night. The dark curve of the Thames was a frigid presence by his side, his breath streaming out in clouds and obscuring his vision slightly. His first day on the job as Detective Inspector was already looking to be a rough one, a call put in for a potential suicide. Not that it was strictly part of his division if that's what it was, but he couldn't afford to be picky about the cases he chose.

 

Not now, when it was his first time being in charge. Unbeknownst to him, the young man's angel puffed his feathers up slightly at the thought. Crow intended to take this just as seriously as his Chosen. However, his goal was of an entirely different nature. The tattoo on his bare chest burned brightly like a brand despite the chill in the winter air, one of the coldest winters London had seen in a long time. It was looking to be a storm soon, if the clouds in the sky continued to build.

 

Red and blue lights flashed like candy-coated spires on the slick black pavement, glittering in a thousand broken pieces across concrete and shadow, illuminating some of the dark. Greg picked his way carefully to the crime scene, where officials were already fishing through the water, searching for a body. He came to stand beside Sergeant Donovan, also a newbie as he put his hands on his hips and breathed in the crisp air.

 

“Doesn't bode well, a suicide as my first case.”

 

The young woman looked at him carefully, dark brown eyes still wide and filled with a sort of innocence that came with never having been put on the job before. Still, Lestrade supposed he was no better, more boy than man in his uniform despite his best effort to appear older than he was. He was greying prematurely, so he supposed with only a small bit of annoyance towards his physical appearance that he had the advantage in that sense. Sally's voice was low and hushed.

 

“I always find myself wondering why they choose to jump from the Thames. There's plenty of other rivers, plenty of other waters....”

 

Unseen, her angel shivered and clutched their arms across their chest. They could sense the dying dregs of Magic in the air.

Magic best left unperformed, like a lingering after-taste of bitter salt.

“It's a landmark of London.” Greg answered easily, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

 

“People are drawn to areas they know. Everyone in London's seen the Thames at some point in their lives. There's a certain appeal to getting a chance of landing a spot on BBC News even after death too.”

 

He scuffed the edge of the pavement with the tip of his shoe, dark brown eyes quickly flitting about for any sign of witnesses. He saw no one that looked like they could have been the ones to make an anonymous call to the Yard, only a couple of piles of trash in the alleys and a bundle of rags. There was really little evidence that anyone had been around at all, and yet the heavy nets still fished for something, anything other than the trash lurking in the water. Below the bridge, other sergeants searched the shoreline, looking for anything that might have washed up. Even a scrap of a shoe at this point would be better than nothing.

Donovan's voice was subdued, but it held a small crackle of sympathy.

 

“The road he was found on was near here.... you going to be okay, sir?”

 

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, feigning a small smile. Addie had been gone now for a long time, it no longer seared him when he was mentioned in everyday conversation. Still, there was a dull ache, thrumming through his bones like cancer.

“Yeah. I'll be fine. Got to stay focused.”

 

She might have said something more, but something in Lestrade's expression seemed to make her think twice. Mouth tightening in silent sympathy, she looked back out towards the dark waters, eyes unreadable as the night.

 

It was in that moment, that sergeant Diggs, who had been working at the nets, whistled sharply in signal.

“We've got something!”

 

Both Donovan and Lestrade stepped closer to the edge of the bridge, the pale and lifeless form being painstakingly dragged to the surface. Behind them, hidden in the shadows, the bundle of rags rose somewhat woozily to their feet.

 

The forensics team was already starting to tape the area off, but the shadowy boy somehow seemed to escape their notice. He watched as a distantly familiar figure crouched in front of the net, snapping on a pair of latex gloves in order to painstakingly clear the facial features of the human being they'd found.

Sherlock held his breath, frozen and cold.

 

_Victor._

 

Lestrade found himself looking at the corpse of a teenager. Blue and frigid. His first instinct was to recoil from it, but he grit his teeth and carefully held his ground. Sally wasn't nearly as composed, she drew back with a hiss of indrawn teeth, clapping a hand over her mouth before rapidly recovering.

 

The boy was curled into a tight ball, limbs frozen from as much the cold water as the first stages of post-mortem. The water had plastered his honey-blonde curls to his pale cheeks, his clothes thoroughly drenched but having once probably been of higher quality. That much the D.I could tell from a glance. He could also tell that the body was only a couple of hours old, which meant that the call matched up to the time the young man jumped. For a moment Greg felt a small pang of regret at a kid, lying dead at his feet. But the teen really wasn't much younger than he was. Still, he somehow felt older, as he straightened his spine and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a civilian, but he wrote it off to be a curious onlooker to the scene. Not unusual.

 

His angel however turned, feeling the tug of the tattoo on his chest. Sherlock stood, a monochrome, black-and-white figure against grey. His eyes were the only spot of colour.

Pale, luminescent blue.

 

Too wide, far too large on a thin face.

His gaze was locked on the crumpled form already being prepped to be moved into a black body bag. Sally Donovan was looking the boy over, tilting back the corpses head to look at purpling marks around his lips.

 

“Died from drowning before cold. Not common, but not unheard of. He had a coat on after all when he jumped. Still, hypothermia kicked in not long after. No signs of a struggle... Looks like a suicide.”

 

She seemed to be about to say more, when one of the sergeant's tending the nets let out a shout of surprise. All heads turned, Sherlock's included, as Diggs pointed at the net they were already hoisting up.

 

“Sir! There's another one!”

 

A small, intake of air. Lestrade now turned to see the teenager that was standing at the edge of the crime scene tape, eyes transfixed on the figure they pulled out. A scrap of a teen, and Greg realised with a start that the pile of rags he had seen earlier was in fact, this kid. And kid he was, though his eyes appeared much older.

Barely more than seventeen, probably.

 

The corpse they pulled up was a woman. She was completely bare. Long,blonde hair stretched out like seaweed as the forensics team carefully laid her out on the same stretch of fabric as the boy, her figure small and crumpled. Her skin was pale as ice, and when she was turned over, Greg saw with some surprise that there were two twin lacerations lacing her back, deep. Deep enough to still bleed, albeit somewhat sluggishly. Ragged and torn, like something had been ripped from the skin. Behind him, Sherlock's breath froze in his chest.

 

“Domestic fight? A suicide pact?” Sally wondered aloud, watching as Lestrade crouched by the body, scratching the back of his head in confusion. The call had only tipped them off to one jumper, not two. Yet what were the chances of two bodies being fished out in the same night and having nothing to do with each other? His fingers reached out to trace the marks, latex gloves that he had shrugged on without thinking coming away stained a bright and vivid red.

Beside him, Crow stirred.

 

Though the angel could not hear Sherlock's thoughts like John could, the temporary Bond allowed him to feel some emotions. Trickling into his mind was a slow bubbling fury, as well as pain and a cracking agony that made him shiver and wrap his wings more closely over Greg.

 

Sally wasn't done with her observations.

“Why is she naked? A rape gone wrong? Maybe the person who called mistook it as a suicide, maybe it was murder?”

 

In that moment, a deep voice spoke up. Sharp and clear and cold.

 

“Wrong.”

 

_Wrong._

 

That word, the way it was said struck something inside Greg. His head lifted, and he stared at the stranger standing at the edge of the police tape, finally analysing his presence. The teen must have been only seventeen, eighteen at most, and yet he stood in only a coat that was open to reveal the pyjamas he wore underneath. He was pale, in the sort of way that made the detective think of black and white films and cheap vampire films. A head of dark curls sat messy and unwashed, partially shielding his eyes. Yet they were an unnatural enough colour as to stand out, and they now pierced Greg to the spot with a frigid kind of calculation.

Beside the D.I Donovan stiffened, her eyebrows lowering in confusion and irritation as she spoke.

 

“And just  _who_  are  _you?_  Do you have information to give about this case, sir?”

 

The teenager snorted, his expression strangely flat and dead. It was somewhat chilling, to see such a look on his face. Wrong somehow, detached and stony, like a marble statue. Lestrade found a sudden feeling of déjà vu thrilling through him, awkward and uncomfortable. He felt like he had seen that face somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. Like an echo of a different face, that look was something his mind screamed at in recognition. Demanded he know.

 

“I know more than most people with PHD's, let alone when you're fishing my boyfriend out of the river.”

 

That caused several heads to snap up, and Sally's mouth fell open before she flushed a deep and shamed pink.

“Oh my God, sir I am so, so-”

 

The young man rolled his eyes, seemingly irritated.

“Don't be an idiot. Stop it.”

 

Her mouth snapped shut with a rather audible  _click._ Only Greg noticed the very slight tremor in the young man's hand as reaching into his pocket, he fished out a cigarette and cupped in his fingers to light it.

It glowed and spat sparks as the D.I took charge.

 

“Sir, I understand you might very well be in shock-” At the boy's sharp eyebrow raise Greg hurried on

“But if you have any information at all that you're withholding, I'll have to ask you to come with us-”

 

“You're wrong. It wasn't murder.”

Sherlock took in a deep lungful of smoke, his eyes glassy and faraway. The D.I noticed as he scratched absently at one arm that the crook of his elbow was littered with track-marks, pink and silver in the light of the street-lamps.

 

“Also, Victor Trevor never knew this woman. Of that I am certain. Nor would he be one to rape another person.”

 

Carefully, Greg stepped a little closer to the still and distant figure before him, frowning.

“The evidence here suggests-”

 

“Your evidence is false evidence. I don't know who that woman is, but you can tell just from Victor's body alone that he did not know her.”

 

Greg opened his mouth to argue, but the teen seemed to expect it and cut him off even as he ducked under the police tape without permission.

“If your first theory were correct, and it was a suicide pact, one would think that the girl would have on clothes. Either that or the other corpse would be bare as well. A rape is possible but unlikely, given the fact that I've dated Victor now for a couple of years and despite my own demand that he push through my hesitations did nothing more than kiss me. You could claim that my soul witness of his character wouldn't be compelling enough evidence, but the fact remains that there is no sign of struggle anywhere on the girl. _Obvious_ really, if you look.There is no bruising on the wrists or windpipe, and the gashes on her back would have had to  have been made with some kind of knife, which Victor's body does not seem to possess....”

 

The boy trailed off then, gaze vacant as he finally fixed his eyes on the still body lying before him. He dropped the cigarette tiredly, grounding it out with the heel of his shoe. It spat and hissed faintly in the rain water. For a moment, Greg thought he saw the young man sway in place, something flicker in those irises. It was the shred of emotion, the barely-there sense of vulnerability, that finally made the D.I put two and two together. He gaped, memory suddenly coming back to him, having been buried so long ago.

 

_Razor blades._

_Rain._

_Lightning that turned those blue eyes clear._

_A boy standing alone, fingers interwoven in the links of a chain fence._

_An umbrella given in memory._

 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade breathed, to which the teenager's head snapped up to look at the man. Furrowing his brows slightly, the teenager trembled.

“I know you...”

 

He whispered softly, more of a statement than a question. Greg looked hard at the teen now, mentally shaving away the years to see the small, frightened boy he had met when he had been in secondary school. The sight before him now was a pale shadow, in comparison. The years had broken the inquisitive child, sharpened the edges of him both physically and metaphorically. He wondered to himself what could have happened, to turn such a bright spark of a child into this mess. The ragged, half-mad creature before him. Greg remembered Mycroft then, constantly worried for his brother's safety. So cold to most and yet that evening had been so impossibly human.

 

Before him stood someone hard and cold and strangely mournful, and before he thought about it Lestrade asked.

“Does your brother know you're here?”

 

But that seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as Sherlock's face twisted immediately in revulsion and hot fury.

 

Before the D.I knew what was happening, the teen was fleeing, running as far and fast as his long legs could carry him. With a shout, Greg tried to pursue, but there was no chance of him catching up. The man effortlessly leaped over debris like an alley cat, scaling a wall in order to escape to the other side. Greg clutched at his knees and panted, calling out in vain

“Wait!”

To no avail.

His breath trailed out foggily with his sigh as only the cold bricks of London answered his plea.

There went the only connection to the case, all because of his stupidity.

 

Vaguely, he could hear Sally Donovan chasing after him, her sharp shoes hitting the cobblestone ground. Greg cupped his face with one hand, rubbing at his eyes.

His first case in charge, and he'd already fucked up.

 

_Wonderful._

 

He grit his teeth, trying to assuage his inner frustration with himself as he kicked at a wall, almost not noticing when his phone began to buzz. When he finally fished through his pockets, to Greg's great confusion the caller came up a private number.

Sally caught up with him just as he pressed talk, holding the phone to his ear in suspicion.

 

“....Hello?”

 

“Mr. Gregory Lestrade?”

A clean, professional-sounding voice greeted him, at once familiar and mysterious. The D.I frowned, standing unconsciously straighter as his words became clipped. Curt.

 

“Who is this?”

 

Instead of answering, there was merely the sound of a car pulling up at the street, shining and black as the rims flashed incandescent silver. It parked at the mouth of the alley where he and Donovan stood, the car door opening. A woman in a dark black pencil skirt and blazer stepped out, dark blonde hair piled to the top of her head in a bun. She opened the back door without a word.

The voice gave a single option. More of an order, really.

 

“Would you and your partner please kindly get into the car?”

 ****

Nothing made sense.

 

Sherlock ran, heart in his mouth as he leapt over rubbish bins and ducked into the shadows of an alley. His own breath streamed harshly from his lips, wild and afraid.

 

_This all makes no sense._

 

Victor. Victor and the strange woman, their cold and lifeless eyes staring up at the night. Though it had barely registered with him before, the teen now felt his knees buckle, what little he had eaten being brought back up as he gagged violently.

 

_It all makes no sense._

 

Was the D.I working for his brother? Was that why he had been sent? To try and bring Sherlock home? Did that mean that Victor's death was planned?

His thoughts roiled at the thought, tearing at each other savagely and turning murderous towards his brother. However he couldn't stand, his body still dry-heaving helplessly. He felt tears, hot painful trickle at the corner of his eyes from the force of his muscle spasms.

At least, he told himself it was only that.

 

The numbness had left him, instead filling Sherlock with a kind of dark desperation. He wanted to forget. No, _needed_ to. Just for a little while, just for an instant. A part of him demanded that he solve the mystery, the puzzle of the other corpse. Was he wrong all along? _Had_ Victor actually known her? What else had he kept from him if so? Questions circled Sherlock, creating a noose he wanted to hang himself with. A chain dragging him back to the scene of the crime. In a fit of manic energy, he rose to his feet, stumbling half back the way he came until his brain caught up with him, and he knew he couldn't go back.

 

If his brother knew the man, the one that claimed to have recognised him, then he might be walking into a trap. Sherlock's upper lip curled at the thought, and he hazily realised that it had been a while since his last hit. His shaking was not entirely from grief, although he all but howled with the thought that he couldn't touch that face, hold that lifeless vessel close to him and beg him to return. Not that it would do any good. Even if there had been some way, Victor would have eluded reincarnation.

If only to spite everyone one last time.

 

Strangely, that thought was comforting. Slowly, the teen staggered his way back home, fighting against the freezing chill as much as his own uncooperative limbs. He had a stash back at Victor's flat, hidden under the floorboards. It wouldn't take much to get him suitably high, to melt away the confusion and grief that plagued Sherlock now like a disease.

He was sick of thinking. Because if he thought, he could predict the _exact angle_ Victor had jumped at, deduce _exactly_ how his body had hit the water-

 

A jutting stone in the pavement caused him to trip. His knee scraped painfully. The teen's fingers pulled away to be stained with blood.

He could hear the rhythm of Victor's fingers, tapping right next to his ear.

The lullaby of his breath.

 

_Careful, Holmes._

 

Somehow, the redness of it allowed Sherlock to blank, to make his way mechanically back home.

It seemed he blinked, and he was standing in the doorway.

 

Surrounded by Victor's things.

Victor's mother was away on a trip.

 

She wouldn't know until Sherlock bothered to call. Somehow, he couldn't be bothered.

Instead, his hands found the nearest picture of Victor, smiling with his arm snaked around Sherlock. It had been one of their second or third outings, and Sherlock was pouting into the lens. As usual, Victor's grin was easygoing, smooth and bright.

 

His finger's grip slipped.

Whether or not it was an accident, to this day Sherlock couldn't be sure.

The frame smashed, glass collecting at his feet.

 

All the teen could somehow muster was a rather crooked smile, and a small, unrepentant

“Oops.”

 

****

He had been always chasing dreams, wasn't he?

Even now, as  Sherlock held the piece of glass in his hands from The Chest, palming the piece, he knew.

He had always been chasing after the dream of Victor, what he could have been instead of what he was.

Though he could try, he'd never been able to avoid it. Running after things. Fighting for them beyond what was reasonable or necessary. Painfully he clung to people, the few he dared to allow get close. It sickened him.

 

Sentiment, indeed.

 


	24. The Devil's Honesty and God's Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, because I forgot to inform all the last chapter, the main reason I have not been updating has been due to exams. HOWEVER, the break is now on, and to celebrate, here is the chapter!! XD I apologize about the wait. Hope you enjoy!! The song is Heaven Knows by the pretty reckless :3

 

  
_One, two, three and four_   
_The devil's knocking at your door_   
_Caught in the eye of a dead man's lie_   
_Show you life with your head held high_   
_Now you're on your knees_   
_With your head hung low_   
_Big man tells you where to go_   
_Tell 'em it's good_   
_Tell 'em okay_   
_Don't do a goddamn thing they say_

_Oh, lord, heaven knows_   
_We belong way down below_   
_Oh, lord, tell us so_   
_We belong way down below_   
_Way down below, way down below_   
_Way down below, way down below_

 

 

 

John woke with a splitting headache. Unusual as it was for an angel, he groaned, the sound keening and lowly in his throat. Everything tasted like sandpaper and sweat. His tongue was heavy as it moved against the roof of his mouth.

 

Everything ached like  _hell._

 

At that thought, his wings twitched in silent amusement. Well, at least Sherlock wasn't around to further send him into distress. It was almost relieving for the first time, to be separated from the detective. Subtly he checked his bonds, feeling the heavy weight of them about his wrists and ankles. It felt leaden and slow, almost as slow as the detective first thing in the morning.

 

A small giggle left John's throat, but it was soon quenched by a chuckle that answered from the other end of the room. Slowly, the angel realised he was bound to a chair, Runes burning into his wrists  _ **Dark Magic**_ and holding him in place as he struggled experimentally. Forcing himself to look up past the haze of drugged confusion, John found that he was in relative darkness, a thick, chemical smell filling his nostrils before he even fully realised his imprisonment.

 

_Chlorine._

 

The angel took in the tiled floor beneath him and recognised that he was in a swimming pool shower. Also, that he had been here before. A very,  _very_ long time ago.

 

It wasn't too far from Sherlock's old home.

 

 

That, and he was not alone. Sitting on a bench right on the outside of the small cubicle of tile and coalesced shower scum, a very pale, dark-eyed man sat sprawled in ridiculous ease. John faced him with his back to the shower wall, and the angel could tell almost immediately that the person he was looking at was in fact, not Human.

 

It was a good disguise though. If John hadn't been an angel, he might have actually fallen for it. The man was not exactly tall but not short either, and he didn't exactly hold a presence about him. He easily looked like the type that could fade in the background if he so chose, black-brown eyes wide and almost deer-like in contrast to the paleness of his skin. He had a curling, chesire-type smile, and John felt as if he had seen it before, if only once in a dream. The man wore a westwood suit that was dark and sleek, and a tie clenched at his neck had little skulls decorating it. His chestnut hair was slicked back from his face, and it added just a hint of something dangerous to his expression.

 

However, what gave him away was the very simple fact that when he blinked, his eyes flickered pitiless black.

 

His slow, Irish drawl sent a shiver of apprehension and fear up John's spine. Because this wasn't a  _ **Demon**_ , this was something else. And for the first time, the angel had no clue at to what this creature might be.

 

“Jim Moriarty. Hiiiii.”

 

The man greeted, seemingly pleased that John was awake. His delicate hands pressed together in a show of excitement that was rather similar to a certain detective's, eyes glinting with a reptilian kind of amusement. The angel grunted, mentally trying to assess how much danger he was actually in. He did not know how he had gotten here, the memories vague and swimming. John could recall sharp teeth, golden eyes. A chilling howl that had raised the hair on the back of his neck and made him for a moment recall  _ **Scheol  **_with startling clarity. The taste of sand and desert echoed on his tongue before he shook the image away, shuddering as he glared at the stranger before him.  _Moriarty._ He has heard that name a few times now, both in Sherlock's mind and on the lips of the people who's cases they had worked on. A spider, seated in a web.

Now it appeared that the man pulling all the strings had finally decided to grace the angel with his presence. John wasn't sure if he should be alarmed or angry that the person in the end was more than just a man.

He decided for both as he grit his teeth.

 

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” The unanswered question hung on his lips.

 

 _**What** _ _are you?_

 

Moriarty tutted softly, as if John was an insolent child being rude at a dinner party. His limbs stretched out with a cat-like relaxedness, and the angel could almost imagine that a purr might come from the creature's lips if his belly was only rubbed the right way. It didn't change the fact that when he shifted, John caught a flicker of something coming out of the man's back. Something hidden.

Something dark.

“I told you. My name's Jim Moriarty. Do keep up now my dear, I do  _so_ loathe repetition. As for what I  _want_ with you, well....”

 

He flipped onto his stomach on the bench, grinning maniacally.

“I always feel like I should check on Daddy's little  _toys...._ make sure he's not mistreating them... Especially ones as interesting as you and your little  _ **Chosen.**_ ” He licked his lips then, eyes raking hungrily over the angel's form. Though John was in only his pants and a sleeping shirt, the angel was unmoved by the look. Instead, he felt his flesh crawl from it, something deep and nameless and hateful forming at the base of his spine.

His voice was a growl as he spat out

“Stay away from Sherlock-”

 

Only to be cut off by a harsh laugh.

“Oh, my dear thing. It's  _far_ too late for you to be making threats.” And as if to drive his point home, John heard a low growl come from the shadows beyond the changing room. The angel felt desperation rip through him as the furred shadow came into sight, and his mouth was dry as he gaped at a creature he had hoped he'd never see again.

 

The  _ **Werewolf**_ snarled a low warning, hackles rising on her massive shoulders as she assumed a position of defence in front of the man. The collar about her neck showed her ownership, glinting in the sickly fluorescent lighting like tin. Her long, leonine figure sent spasms of terror through John. He had seen just what wolves of this size could do to a man. He knew  _intimately_ how strong their jaw-strength was. In fact, a scar on his hip twinged with it. Stilling as much as he dared, John carefully inhaled and forced himself to think through the fear that clawed through his chest. It was obvious he was bait. Moriarty didn't seem to be taking him terribly seriously. That meant that John was most likely being used to lure someone else. Although his Father might have been a suspect for the creature's target, the angel doubted any living being could be so horrifically  _stupid_ as to try and lure the Creator without a better arsenal than a  _ **Were**_ and a curling dead grin. So that left Sherlock, unfortunately.

 

John hoped the git wouldn't take the bait. He  _really_ hoped.

 

However, he didn't hold out much confidence. The fact was whether John liked it or not, Sherlock felt the Bond just as strongly as he did. He would come.

Even if he had no logical clues to follow, if his angel needed him, the detective would arrive.

 

Jim read his expression gleefully, dark eyes shining even as he stroked Gladstone's pelt with one long hand.

 

“Got her as a pup off the black market. It's amazing what parents will sell to get by... She doesn't even know. The freak of her family... and now she belongs to me...”

 

John resisted the urge to flinch when the  _ **Were**_ whined softly in its throat at the man's touch, ears flicking back in submission as she suddenly lay down on her front paws. Her tail wagged in forced deference to the man. The angel could see for just a moment in those golden eyes dull intelligence trapped in the liquid gold irises of a beast.

 

John's voice was edged in sarcasm.

“She looks _so_  much better off.”

 

Jim chuckled.

“Now, now. Must be careful with compliments, too many and I'll get a swelled head! This is my job, John. To collect broken things. Things that are considered broken anyway to  _your_ side. I personally find them so much more enlightening...”

 

He said the last bit with mocking scorn, scratching the massive wolf's tawny head as he continued to stare the angel down.

 

“And just what side am I on?” John asked, wings quivering with derision. He needed to stall. Needed time to think his way out of this. Needed to hurry up because there was a colossal fur-monster eyeing him like he'd be a delicious low-fat snack and a certain detective probably already preparing to claw his way to John's side.

 

 

And his Father was absent.

_Again._

 

Fury rose, hot and leaden in John's stomach at that fact. He refused to acknowledge it.

 

Jim cocked his head to one side, voice dreamy and sing-song as he purred

“Why, you're on the side of the angels...”

And then at a lower register, and as he spoke John saw how pointed his canines were, how there were dark shadows flickering along the walls of the shower. How for just a moment, he saw something sickly and  _terrifying_ sitting in Jim Moriarty's place.

 

“Or aren't you? Because it seems to me as of late, you can't quite decide. Or am I wrong?” He asked, and John suddenly knew who was in front of him. His wings turned mottled purple in crawling horror.

 

“Lucifer.” He snarled. The madman sighed as if the name was ridiculously flamboyant.

 

“Oh hon, get with the program, that's no longer my name.”

 

And on some silent signal Gladstone suddenly lunged, her teeth snapping around John's ankle and digging in. John howled in pain, unable to keep back his cry even as the chair he was tied to was knocked over, and his head cracked sickeningly against the tile. His feathers flashed dark brown for a moment, disorientation taking over him but swimming quickly back into focus despite the red haze of agony. When he opened his eyes, Moriarty had one foot on the edge of the seat between his legs. His smile was positively feral.

 

“Now that you know who I am I should tell you. My target is not really you, little seraphim.” John felt cold twist in his guts, and he couldn't breathe. His vision was darkening at the edges, pinpointed to where Moriarty's finger was tracing his cheek. He felt cold, frozen all over, and yet the frigid fire licked his veins, turned them to screaming hurt. Vaguely, he realised that something black and reptilian was crawling up his arm, over his chest, forcing itself into the veins of his wings. He let out a garbled shout, thrashing in his bonds. It did nothing. He could hear as if from far away Jim's voice, laughing at his misery.

 

“My target is actually your little  _ **Chosen**_ , although granted you're still part of it. Don't think I'd forget about you, dear Johnny. See, when you hear my plan, you'll realise something:  _I'm not the bad-guy._ In the end, we were all meant for down below, because none of us can hope to live with a ruler who has double standards in everything he does. Our Daddy's been a bit naughty, see. And he's used you as such a pretty little chess piece for far too long.”

 

The angel responded by spitting at that curling grin, aiming for his face, instead getting the man's polished tie. Gladstone's teeth clamped harder down on John's leg, and he nearly blacked out as stars burst behind his eyelids. He shook, knowing that his pain would be transferring to Sherlock.

Knowing that there was no way to stop this.

 

Jim's words were calm and detached.

 

“You'll find you've been a knight on a chessboard one too many times, John Watson. And it's time you stopped serving under the white king. When you find that falling can be just like flying, then you'll know.”

 

His voice was hot against the shell of John's ear.

 

“ _You'll know the white king tells all sorts of dreadful **lies.** ”_

 

****

Sherlock was sitting in his hotel room, gripping his forehead in pain. Beside him sat a single, dark blue feather, flickering iridescently in the dim light. Beside that, was a shattered piece of glass from an old picture frame.

 

But it wasn't these things that was causing the detective agony, no. Rather, it was a physical sensation, rending him to a curled ball of pain. For a second, he considered the fact that he may have been poisoned. The pounding in his head and blood seemed to suggest so. However, Sherlock knew poisons intimately, and none that he had ever encountered felt like this. It felt like... It felt like he was frozen, so cold he was burning. He felt like as he exhaled that he should see fog and smoke come from his parted lips. The light hurt, it pulsed at him and made him woozy. The spell had come on savagely and suddenly, and he had nearly dropped The Chest on his foot, as he had been carrying it to set aside so he might call John.

 

Yes,  _call._ Because these memories had to be false, had to be incorrect. Because they were impossible. Sherlock concluded he  _must_ have been poisoned.

 

Because angels did not  _exist._

 

Yet he was... remembering something that seemed to imply they  _did._ Growling, the detective rose from the bed, clutching his arm in dull pain. It was his shoulder, it seemed to grow from there, sunbursting down his spine. The hurt was a slow, trickling thing, aching and almost distant. Still it hurt. Stumbling into the bathroom, Sherlock reached blearily for a plastic cup, unsheathing it from a stack and pouring himself a cup of water. The liquid was cool and soothing, but it did not stop him from grimacing in pain as a fresh wave of agony washed through him. He nearly choked from it, and instead spat the rest of the water down the drain. His tongue felt dry almost instantly after.

 

Looking in the mirror, the detective could see the proof of many sleepless nights. His eyes were rimmed with purple, his skin looking less pale and more sallow. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his curls that were normally immaculately combed were now looking mussed and disorganized. If he hadn't been feeling like he was being hit by a truck, Sherlock might have laughed.

He hadn't looked this undone since his drug days.

 

He snarled at his reflection, lips pulled back from teeth, and to his surprise Sherlock caught a glimpse of someone else. He thought he saw John's face, wide-eyed with controlled fear, a pair of- of  _wings_ arched behind him and ruffled in terror. For a moment, the detective could hear him, calling his name.

 

_Sherlock!_

 

With the flashing image came a fresh stab of pain, and Sherlock gripped the edges of the sink and swallowed a groan. Stumbling back to his room, he rifled for his phone, determined now to call the army doctor. If worse came to worse, he could pretend he wasn't suffering from vivid hallucinations and call his brother. If not...

Well if not, then his blogger might very well be in trouble.

 

When Sherlock got to the tenth ring with no reply from John, the detective turned reluctantly to Mycroft.

Sherlock didn't see the flicker of someone standing in the corner of his room, nor did he notice how Death looked at their pocket-watch with lips tightened from worry. The green hand was spinning, tilting back and forth unpredictably like a dreidle left to whirl with no gates to hold it in one area. It flickered, looping around back and forth. One place it rested on stated in a few months time.

 

The other was later on tonight.

 

Instead, Sherlock saw in his mind's eye the disturbing vision he witnessed so long ago, while leaning against an impossible lion and mourning the loss of a lover.

 

John, crumpled and small in his arms, wings burned ashen. Blood-streaked and lifeless and broken.

Though the detective didn't know much about what was going on, one thing was for sure.

 

He would do all in his power to ensure that whatever mad hallucinations befell him, nothing like that would happen to his John Watson.

 

****

 

She woke to the sound of howls filling the night. They brought her from pleasant dreams, waking her to instinctively curl towards her lover protectively. The sheer green robe she wore slipped from her shoulders with the sudden movement, revealing the tattoo of red wings, tucked against her spine.

 

The woman for a moment didn't dare to move or breathe as silence fell over London, uncanny in the city that never stopped moving. In the sky, the moon hung heavy and solid in the dark, glow casting everything into white as she listened tersely for any sign of the source of the howls. Underneath her, her partner's voice was loud in the night.

 

“....Irene?”

In the utterance of her name was a thousand questions. The top-most was evident in the way Kate's knuckles were clenched against the sheets, in the curvature of her spine and neck. Her dark blue eyes were round and wide as she looked up at her lover, listening to the pounding of her heartbeat as both of them searched for wolves. As the silence stretched on, gradually Irene relaxed. A slow breath left her parted lips, and her long hair created a soft halo about her face even as she buried her nose against the crook of Kate's neck. Her exhale of relief was sudden and sure.

 

“The guards took care of them. We're safe tonight.”

 

In her arms, Kate's tensed muscles fell slack. An explosive breath left her, and she murmured in the dark.

“We have twelve refugees in the basement, I told you it was too much. They're getting better at tracking.” She shivered “He's been  _training_ them.”

 

Irene's voice was gentle against her lover's throat, but in her words was an edge of underlying steel.

“What would you have me do? Turn them away? One of them watched his own twin as well as his sister get torn apart.”

Kate's voice was small, but she clung to Irene with determination. Her voice was low and fierce.

“I know you identify with them, the children especially. But this,  _this_ is dangerous. You have to promise me that if it came down to us and them-”

 

The woman cut her off with a kiss against the lips, hard and sure and confident. Her voice was heavy with determination.

“Always us. Always. I'd never let them get you, and I can never go back. I'd sooner die.”

 

That seemed to relax some of the blonde's protests, but still she persisted. Her whisper was fraught with worry.

“I don't like it. You pretend to work with him, and all the while you hide his targets. You don't work with  _the angels_ either for obvious reasons, but you're against everyone. You have to be careful.”

 

Irene smiled then, her voice was sweet and sure.

“But my love, when have I ever  _not_ been?”

 

And as if to prove her point, she caged Kate in place with her limbs, lips finding her neck and nipping gently as a distraction. Though her lover knew what she was doing, she didn't seem to mind. She made a small noise of appreciation in the back of her throat baring her neck for better access even as her fingers found the dark waves of her hair.

 

“What is your blackmail then? Who do you have of interest that could halt both the Devil and God himself?”

 

Irene ducked lower, pressing a kiss along Kate's collar-bone. Her voice was dripping with want.

“It's not a matter of who I have  _now_ my dear, it's who I shall have in the  _end._ Everyone in time will know Sherlock Holmes, will want to make him theirs.”

 

She gripped Kate's hand, intertwining their fingers. Irene's eyes glowed brilliant blue in the dark, hungry and predatory. Her smile was rather savage.

“But they will forget about his true heart, and that my dear, will be their greatest mistake. You can control a man's mind with puzzles and riddles, and still never entirely own him.”

 

She straddled Kate's hips more firmly, pressing skin against skin and creating a delicious sort of friction.

“But control his  _heart,_ the source of all of his emotions, and you can have a man at your feet faster than he will even know.”

 

Kate finished her explanation, free hand reaching up to cup the back of Irene's neck.

“John Watson.”

She breathed, eyes wide and transfixed on her lover's face. Irene wanted to bite the name from her very lips. She did just that, drawing moans from somewhere deep inside Kate's small form. Her purr was once of assertion.

 

“That's right. What we need, is one. John. Watson.”

 

And the howls picked up again in the dark.  


	25. Truths Left Untold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song is with ears to see and eyes to hear by sleeping with sirens!!
> 
> :3 Hope you enjoy!!

 

 

  
_Forgiveness -- this taste all but poisons my mouth_   
_I scream but nothing, nothing will come out_   
_You've gone too far_

_So tell me how does it feel, how does it feel to be like you?_   
_I think your mouth should be quiet 'cause it never tells the truth_   
_So tell me, so tell me why, why does it have to be this way?_   
_Why can't things ever change?_

_Falling over and over again_   
_Oh, why does it have to be this way?_

 

 

 

 

After the third attempt at calling his brother, Sherlock was finally put through to the elder Holmes' personal phone. Mycroft had apparently been absent most of the day- some sort of undercover work that his secretary refused to reveal to Sherlock. All the while the detective paced, already in the airport awaiting for the next flight to London. One thumbnail was firmly caught between his teeth, being bitten into savagely as his dark coat flared behind him. This was wrong. This was all  _wrong._

 

Images floated into his mind, memories blurring together in lightning-quick succession, suddenly becoming clear like they awoke themselves from somewhere deep inside his subconscious. A shadow of a wing sheltering him as a child from the sun, warm hands cupping his cheeks and wiping away the tears he refused to let his older brother see, a smile he knew achingly well sometimes lingering in the periphery of his childlike vision. Memories that used to hold no meaning, images that were dull and pointless became vivid sparks coalescing behind his closed eyelids. His heart pounded in his chest, and his other hand came to clutch at it through his shirt even as he hissed through his teeth.

 

He hadn't felt this out of his mind since the drugs. No, he hadn't felt this out of his mind since he'd actually managed to convince himself that standing on the edge of a fucking  _bridge_ was somehow preferable to dealing with the world around him. The detective grit his teeth, a pulsing headache threatening to burst between his eyes. He needed answers, needed to make sure he wasn't just going insane. He  _needed_ to know that John Watson was at home. Was  _safe._

 

Mycroft's voice was thin and caustic on the other end of the line.

“Really Sherlock, if it isn't something life-threatening I'm going to have to tell you that I can't get involved. I am dealing with a potential security risk of the highest level, and I cannot pander around to your every whim-”

 

“John Watson. Is he at Baker Street?” Sherlock interrupted, snarling into the phone even as he lifted his carry-on onto his shoulder. Overhead, the speakers announced his flight was ready to board. Obvious, from the state of the pilot's tie and hat. He glowered at the air-flight attendant who smiled pointedly at his phone. Wordlessly, he flipped his passport at her. Her distaste for him quickly slid into cautious neutrality. The Holmes' name was well known.

 

Sherlock heard his brother heave an audible sigh, but his annoyance silenced itself into preoccupation as the British government checked through his contacts. There was an audible pause as Mycroft read the latest update on his surveillance, and the faintest click of the umbrella he always carried with him striking the pavement where he stood in thought. When Sherlock heard his brother's voice again, it held in it an unfamiliar line of surprise. Surprise.... and quickly relevant shock.

 

“He's not anywhere, according to his tracker.”

 

Sherlock froze. John had a tracker sewn into the collar of his coat. It had been this way nearly since the army doctor had first started to work with the detective. Halting in the middle of the row inside the plane, Sherlock demanded his brother repeat himself.

 

“What?”

 

His brother's voice had taken a soft quality, one of slow-turning grimness. It held in it a weight that settled over the younger Holmes' bones like lead.

“Sherlock. There's a message for you. Back at the flat.”

 

Someone behind Sherlock hissed at him to take his seat, but the detective ignored them. His thoughts were humming at a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out what the captor wanted. Knuckles tightening against the edge of a seat, the detective sharply demanded answers.

 

“What does it say? Mycroft! What does it say?!”

 

Silence on the other line, but not one built from hesitation. Rather, it was laced with confusion. As if his brother didn't know what to make of the cryptic words. Sherlock could picture the letters, painted on the walls of his flat. Poor Mrs. Hudson would likely have a fit if she wasn't having one already from seeing it.

 

Mycroft's voice was filled with mystified disbelief.

 

“It says....  _Angels are all around us, and Demons lurk in their shadows... The Liar will be punished?_ ”

 

Without further explanation, Sherlock hung up the phone.

 

****

John yelped as the curdling strike of hands lashed across his face, hard enough to make the bones in his cheek crunch, healing over an instant later with supernatural ability. He felt the entire chair that he was tied to rock with the momentum, his stomach dropping out from under him dizzyingly only to right itself a moment later. The angel panted, barely given enough time to blink and collect his bearings before he was struck again, the blow sending pulsing agony down the length of his neck. Sweat collected heavily at his collar-bone, glinting in the dark along with the hatred that was growing in John's eyes. He spat at Moriarty's feet raggedly, aiming with success at his expensive shoes, even as he was struck again with enough force to make his teeth click together.

 

The Devil's voice was conversational, light.

“Now, now Johnny dear. I'm going easy on you, only using my fists. Don't want anything permanent to be damaged.” His fingers were long and burned as they patted John's swelling cheek, smile shark-like even as his Irish drawl purred.

“After all, I want you hurt  _just_ enough to drive Sherlock completely  _mental._ Get him all stirred up, just so I can watch him froth and foam and do whatever it takes to save you. All for naught of course.”

 

John raised his chin defiantly, blue eyes glittering even as his wings stretched behind him in pained crimson-black and blue. His feathers were bristled in fury, and from the angel's chest a possessive growl shook him that only weakened when a pair of golden eyes blinked in the corners of the shadows. Gladstone could hear murder in the creature's voice. Unbridled rage.

 

“Don't touch him! I swear if I break free I'll kill you! I'll tear your throat out from your neck and strangle you-”

 

The Devil rolled his eyes as if John's threats were incredibly vapid and dull. He stood spindly and straight as he turned away, sighing at the angel as if he were disappointed John couldn't give him more incentive to let him go.

 

“Ever the optimist, ever the loyal soldier. It's pathetic, really John. You. So  _touchingly_ loyal to the light even now. I know you're hoping for someone to come and be you and your Chosen's saviour, but I think you need to know the facts.”

 

He spun, and suddenly the man before John transformed. Gone was the conniving villain in a suit, and replaced was something cold and reptilian. Moriarty's face twisted and warped, his hands disappearing and bending into his sides, a giant silver-green snake twisting and uncoiling itself before John to wrap itself sinuously about the chair. The angel shuddered away from the rasp of scales about him, screaming in his head alarms of any kind- begging  _someone_ upstairs might hear him. Yet all that answered was Moriarty's sickly sweet chuckle, the Devil breath hissing in the shell of his ear as he curled about the angel's chest and squeezing tightly.

 

“ _ **I can hear your thoughtssssss you know.... SSSSuch wonderfully filthy thoughtsssss... what you've been thinking of when you look at your little detective.... what you've been wondering and quessssstioning about your God.....You do not know your worthhhhh John Watsssson. You do not know of the treassssssure your Chosssssen has hidden inssssside his wonderful mind.....”**_

 

The snake pulled itself upright so that John was forced to face it head on, Moriarty's eyes slitted gold as they glittered dangerously. The snake's giant maw opened, revealing rows of deadly-sharp fangs, poison beading steady and clear from the two largest ones in the front of the mouth. The Devil's voice filled John's head, echoing and filling him with a sense of empty cold that leached into his bones and made him want to cry. Made him want to vomit. Made him feel as though his heart was being taken to with a chainsaw. A ripping torture, one that amplified when the snake transformed, and Moriarty's hands reached out. John howled in agony as those hands stroked along the bridge of his right wing, the pain so intense that for a moment the angel saw white and he couldn't breathe.

 

Before his eyes, John saw images, stacked together and blurring like cards being shuffled in a deck at lightning-quick speed. A crawling sensation filled his skin as Moriarty continued to pet his feathers individually, and he heaved helplessly in his restraints as the illusions assaulted him. Sherlock, cold and bloody in his arms. Sherlock, being torn limb from limb and burned to ashes. Sherlock, looking John in the eyes and taking a pistol to his own head. Each image caused the angel to wretch weakly, tears filling his eyes even as his Bond with Sherlock pulsed, twinging in agony.

 

When Jim finally released his wings, John's feathers were pure, coal black. They trembled, each and every feather feeling as though it has been plucked. The muscles of the appendages slumped in defeat, and John's massive wings touched the tile ground around him. The angel slumped forward, eyes glazed, blood streaming from his nose as his breath rattled from his teeth. The shining liquid glittered with power, and John couldn't help the small whimper that escaped him when he saw how Moriarty licked his lips at the sight. Of course, the Devil read his thoughts and smirked. It was a slow, curling thing. The look of it made John wish with all of his might that he could hide.

 

“Ah yes, you've heard the legends. Blood Drinker. Angel Killer. The One Who Fell From Grace. Tempter. The list goes on and on, Johnny.”

Moriarty's eyes were dark as he stalked about the chair, hands curled behind his back and clasped almost childishly. His voice sing-songed through John's head, bouncing back and forth off of the walls, twisting and morphing and bending. It was a parlour trick and nothing more, yet it made the angel quiver. His wings were not changing back.  _They were not changing_ _ **back.**_ The ringing in his head aside, John was panicking. There was no escaping this, and help wasn't coming. Well, at least not the help that could actually  _do_ anything. His Father conspicuously absent, and Sherlock on the way. Oh, how John would be laughing if he wasn't tempted to sob.

 

“But you see, that's the issue. The winners write all the history. And God's own nicknames soften over time, morphing from He Who Must Be Feared into He Who Loves All. I mean really, I'm pretty sure he doesn't love some things. I'm not particularly fond of plagues. Well, okay I am. But I'm sure he's not...” Seemingly oblivious to John's distress the Devil carried on, brogue rising and falling like the skipping of a stone down a river. In a strange way, the sound was hypnotic, almost lulling John into a numb kind of haze. He shook himself, ignoring when pain shot up his spine like a lance. His cry was muffled but pained as the chains binding him burned, refusing him to heal the damage to his feathers. It felt as if hot tar had been poured over them. John was sure Sherlock would be suffering by now.

 

“But you see, no one seems to realize that I've killed oh,  _maybe_ ten or twelve people total in today's Bible? And yet he's directly responsible for millions of deaths, and no one dares call God the  _bad guy._ I mean really, are Humans truly so impossibly dull? It seems that logic to me doesn't prevail in today's religious groups... Morons all of them. Goldfish, swimming around in their little pools. But you John Watson, I can see. I  _know_ what you feel around them.”

 

And Jim spun, irises impossibly dark. His hushed whisper fell into the silence like a promise of death.

“ _Jealousy.”_

 

John stiffened in his seat. In the darkness, Gladstone's ears pricked forward in curiosity. Though the Beast was still in control, it was close enough to her time to shift back that she could understand some Human concepts. And she understood the stiff line in the angel's shoulders, and the way his lip was being bitten. Guilt for an instant crawled over the creature like maggots. Then it was replaced with a mask of cool detachedness.

 

John's voice was plain and sure.

“Angels do not feel jealousy. We are detached from the mortal world. We feel only the desire to protect and serve mankind.” A textbook answer, one Moriarty did not believe for a second. His grin belied his own theories.

 

The Devil 'tsked'.

“An angel spouting bullshit, now this is a treat. I've never heard such immediate lies come from even a  _ **Demon's**_ lips. Truly, Daddy dearest has trained you well. Didn't he ever tell you though that liars pay for their false tales? Tell me, does he give you a treat each time you beg? Or do you just kneel like his bitch automatically?”

 

The twitch in John's jaw said what his mouth didn't speak of. That the Devil was hitting all the right nerves. John's voice was a raspy growl of pain.

“If you're trying to make me see your side, you're not doing yourself any favours.”

 

Jim's smirk was humourless. His pale hands opened at either of his sides, and in them he revealed two things: an apple and a penknife. He lifted the fruit to the sallow lights of the pool, eyes critical as he took in the glossy red hue. His voice held the weight of promise as he looked to the angel, all seriousness and gain.

 

“I'm not trying to Johnny, I'm  _succeeding._ Or haven't you noticed?” John didn't understand, not until the Devil pointed to the angel's wings. John's feathers twitched painfully, dark and black as a smear of coal.

 

“Your wings right now look just like mine, and guess what? I'm not using any Spell to make them like that.” As the pool lights flickered, John saw. The dark, horrid appendages that were burned and dark stretching out of Moriarty's back. Torn, scarred and broken. And John's bore a similarity to them, facing across from one another in that moment of blackness. Jim's voice was a melodic song.

 

“You and I.... we're more alike than you probably would care to admit....”

 

And Jim smiled.

“Because you see, before this all began... my wings were the colour of the  _sky._ ”

 

And John realised his feathers were slowly returning to a pale, turquoise green-indigo blue. The Devil twirled the knife in his hands slowly, an unseen order causing Gladstone to leap from her crouch and pad over to the angel. Slicing a piece of the apple cleanly with the weapon, Jim strode over to John, forcing his lips apart with the cruel grip of his fingers. The fruit tasted sweet on the angel's tongue, sickly so. Like sugar and honey and sweet, sweet morning tea. It filled John's senses, made him drunk for a moment with disorientation. Though he fought, Moriarty held John in place until he was forced to swallow. When he did, the Devil grinned.

 

“The fruit of knowledge, John. Do you know why you could eat it?”

 

The angel knew, but he refused to answer. Instead he looked stubbornly at the ground, jaw locked, tears stinging his eyes. Some of his blood had dried on Moriarty's fingers. Jim raised his hands to his lips, eyes rolling back slightly at the taste. The most addictive substance in the world, and completely at his mercy. A heady and potent high.

 

The Devil's voice was a low drawl.

“Because one of the first lessons of history is, whoever can eat the apple, is destined to sin. And you have been _so_ naughty, John Watson.”

 

And Jim smiled, lips bloody, and sank his teeth into the dark red fruit with apparent delight. The juice that dripped down his chin was tinged pink with John's flavour.

"Lusting after your Chosen like a little puppy, did you think this could end well at all? Not with our papa watching, passing his judgement.  Personally, I don't blame you! I fell in love with my own Chosen for crying out loud! Nothing wrong with love." He purred, eyes glowing with a sadistic kind of glee. It turned dark though as he continued to pick apart the apple in his hands, pieces dropping to the tile floor bit by bit with each flick of his knife.

 

"But I was wrong, I thought Daddy would understand. That he'd see it wasn't my  _fault._ That Sebby, dear Sebby, was simply too hard to resist. I had to have him, I  _had_ to!" Jim shrieked then, his voice cracking as it bounced along the walls only to fade. John shuddered at the madness within the words, flexing against his bonds. This was bad. This was so very, very bad. Because the Devil was starting to sound less like a loon, and more like a heartbroken child as he all but sobbed. 

 

"I just wanted him for myself! Don't you see?! I just wanted.... I couldn't..." And Jim for a moment looked small and vulnerable as his hands shook, and for a moment John thought he caught a glimpse of something in those eyes other than insanity. A mourning. A sadness. Then that sadness turned hard, brittle and bitter, and the Devil shouted once more and spat his outrage.

 

"But NO! THEY TOOK HIM FROM ME! THEY TOOK MY  _ **CHOSEN**_ AND THEY  _ **KILLED**  _HIM! KILLED HIM IN COLD BLOOD!" 

 

And the apple in his hands was stabbed viciously, the knife twisting in the fruit's flesh and cleaving it clean in two. The apple split, falling to the ground only to be crushed underfoot as Moriarty drew nearer, gripping John's throat and looking at him for a moment in pleading.

"Do you not see?" He whispered, eyes filled with sorrow "Do you not see how this is _wrong?_ Seb loved me... I loved him.... And they took him.... and left me with his body... I held that cold corpse in my hands, an angel holding the thing he loved  _most....._ "

His voice trailed off, turning into a hoarse whisper. It was filled with agony.

"And it  _broke_ me." 

 

John's voice was almost silent, those hands still pressed to his windpipe. He scarcely dared to breathe as those fingers flexed with tension.

"Your mistakes do not reflect mine. I will _not_ be convinced." 

And Moriarty's face twisted into a sick laugh, one that threw back his head and made him cackle, long and low. It was a diseased noise. 

"And how can you justify a world which also murdered my unborn child, created in this world and born from both angel and man and completely innocent? Tell me oh _seraphim_ on high, do you think you can justify my punishment, knowing an innocent life was murdered, and I was left with no other option but to bring my  ** _Chosen_  **back by tricking Death themself?"

 

John's eyes closed. His head hung low in defeat. His voice was small and breathless as he felt Moriarty's pain through skin contact. It rippled in him, black and twisted and coiled and a thousand years old. His whimper was a secret, breathed to the open air.

"I..... I  _can't._ "

 

And John felt his chest seize, because a frisson of lightning struck him through his core, and he felt the Bond he had always had, the connection he knew with his Father and had known since birth begin to fray. Tear. 

When he looked into the Devil's eyes, they held within them a kind of manic pride.

"And now, we tell the truth." Moriarty released his throat with an almost parental kind of caress. Moriarty stood over him, once more a calm and collected snake.

 

"But don't worry Johnny. Falling is just like flying, if you only change your perception. I promise you, soon I won't have to hurt you, to make you understand."

His voice dropped a tone, turning menacing.

"Because soon.... you'll do it for me in a  _heartbeat_ , if only I ask."

 

He leaned over, tilted John's chin towards his face. He breathed into the angel's neck.

"Because whoever controls you, controls the  _heart_ of the most powerful weapon ever created. And the best part is... you don't even  _know._ Because your Daddy never bothered to tell you."

He sang. John felt nausea crawl up his throat. His voice was pathetically weak.

"I don't know what... what you're talking about..." He stammered. Images in his head filled with Sherlock, conflicting pictures. His Human. His duty. Sherlock Holmes was his  _friend._

Sherlock Holmes....

 

And his wings turned pink, but now they were dulled with putrid black. 

 

Moriarty laughed. 

"Oh but you will Johnny. Let me tell you. I vow to you by the end of this evening, you will know  _all about_ just how many secrets are being hidden behind those stupid, lying lavender eyes of our father's."

 

And he patted his cheek consolingly, as if he were a child that had been reprimanded. Then John screamed as once again, Moriarty combed through his feathers.

 

****

The pool was dark and empty as Sherlock entered. Though he didn't quite know why he came here, there was one thing of which he was certain:

Once, he had been here before.

 

The walls whispered to him in the silence, bouncing along in the darkness. They spoke of memories deleted more or less, lingering in the deep. Echoes of  _murder murder  Carl Powers Death murder murder _hummed in his bones, and the detective realised where he recognised the glittering glow of the pool in the exact instant that he drew out John's gun from his back pocket. The weapon, a beautiful thing with the Latin words  _Amare  _written on it (Why John's gun said “love” on it Sherlock would never know) glittered in his palm, strangely warm despite it having not been used yet.

 

Sherlock could not know that the weapon would not fire even if he wanted it to, could not know that the weapon itself was about as useful to him as a bag of bricks in this case, but its comforting weight brought the man a sense of collected calm even as he crept forward slowly. Silence was deafening about him, save for the steady drip of something plicking from the ceiling. Possibly rain water, although it was hard to see in the dark. When a drop landed on Sherlock's cheek, the detective made as if to wipe it away. However he paused as he looked at his fingers, lips falling open in surprise even as a cold kind of horror crawled up the back of his spine and shivered over the crown of his skull. His fingers were stained a glimmering red-black, coagulant and thick. The detective whipped his head upwards, and his heart stopped as a surprised shout left his lips.

 

 

John.

 

_**John.** _

 

The man was pinned to the ceiling above the pool, head slumped forward against his chest and nose bleeding freely. An invisible force held him there, stretched spread-eagled over the deep-end, clothes torn and bloodied. But that was not what made Sherlock yelp, although it added to his recoiling horror. What made the detective's lips part in a barely-suppressed  _scream_ was the fact that John was  _writhing_ in torment, lips parted but no sound coming out. His blue eyes were wild with untold pain. On either side, stretching out from his back like two great sails, were something that Sherlock's mind rebelled at even as they embraced.

 

His flatmate's voice rasped upon taking in Sherlock, a keening whine escaping John even as his  _wings_ beat futilely against the ceiling. It was stuttered, but his words were heard.

 

“S...Sher..... Vatican.... Cam-”

 

And the detective ducked without thinking, only to be lifted into the air like a rag-doll as his gun clattered to the floor, an invisible hand flinging him hard against the concrete wall. Sherlock felt his bones creak with the impact, and he let out a gasp that had John struggling futilely, even as a cold and drawn laugh came from seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. Sherlock's head spun, his heartbeat pounding in his ears even as he struggled for breath, wheezing against the weight settled deep into his collar-bones. Vaguely, he heard John pleading, saying something unintelligible, only to be cut off by a snarl of  _“SHUT UP!”_ that sounded as if it came from a madman.

 

Ears ringing with the rebuke, Sherlock blinked to find himself face-to-face with a stranger, a man standing before him with a wide grin and glittering dark eyes. His Chesire grin widened, and the detective without thinking scowled, growling through his teeth a demand.

“Let John go.”

 

And Moriarty, chuckling melodically, waved his hand.

“Oh, if you  _insist._ ” And Sherlock watched in horror beyond the man's shoulder as his angel plummeted into the pool, giant wings curling about him as John's head slipped under the water, and didn't resurface.

 

 

 

 

 


	26. Werewolves In London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot time! ^_^ I love it when pieces begin to click all together, and to me at least they are (though I suspect for readers they aren't yet as things are still happening and need to happen for it to all come together completely) :P Hope you enjoy! Song is This is how you remind me- originally by nickelback (although I tend to like cover versions of this song better tbh)

 

 

 

 

 

  
_This is how you remind me_   
_Of what I really am_

_It's not like you to say sorry_   
_I was waiting on a different story_   
_This time I'm mistaken_   
_For handing you a heart worth breaking_   
_And I've been wrong, I've been down,_   
_Been to the bottom of every bottle_   
_These five words in my head_   
_Scream "are we having fun yet?"_

_Yeah, yeah, yeah, no, no_

 

 

 

It was about the time that John and Sherlock both arrived at the pool that Mycroft witnessed all hell break loose across the city of London.

 

Like a switch had been turned, one moment the government official's phone was silent. He say alone in the Diogenes club, wordlessly scratching away at files with a pen, barely focusing on things around him as he was so absorbed in the thoughts in his own head. He barely noticed when the waiter came in with the scotch he'd requested, didn't look up until a prickle of fear that he didn't know came from his angel caused him to look up-

 

Only for his waiter to spin and transform right before the man's desk into a massive, white  _wolf._  Mycroft barely had time to lunge for his phone before the device was knocked out of his hands and he found himself pinned to the floor, over a hundred pounds of snarling canine causing a cry to rend itself from the government's lips. His head cracked against the floorboards with a sharp sting, and to the man's shock, the wolf began to  _howl._

 

Elsewhere in the city, chaos began to ensue. Greg was sitting in his office as it happened, leaning against the stack of paperwork he was due to write out later on that night. When Sally's agitated footsteps clacked towards his door, the silver-haired man was fully prepared to tell her how whatever was happening was  _not_ his division-

 

Only halfway to the entrance to his office, the normally stoic police sergeant let out a  _shriek._

 

Before Greg even realised what was happening, he was on his feet. He tore down the hall, Crow coasting beside him in a flurry of dark-tinged wings. What Greg saw made him stand stock-still, mouth falling open in horror. Sally was cowering, curled into a tight ball by one of the many cubicles lining the hall. However Greg could barely see her quivering form, because to his horror she was was partially shielded by a massive expanse of  _feathers._

 

And then to Greg's shock, a growling voice was hissing into his ear, even as he was being pinned to the ground protectively by a pair of tanned arms.

“Get  _down._ ” Crow snarled, calling upon his weapon in the blink of an eye. Glowing, materialising in his hand was a silver and black katana. On its hilt were the words  _Aequitus  Equitus._

 

Then Greg saw no more, because midnight-blue wings sheltered his sight. He found his cheek pressed against streaks of ice-blue feathers, spreading out from a single point.

_A hand-print._

 

And despite his confusion and panic, Greg found himself thinking of the day he met Mycroft Holmes. Strangely, he was comforted by the mysterious and dark creature that now pointed a weapon at a snarling  _werewolf._

But then again, maybe that was because despite his best efforts, Greg was used to his life being not inside of his control.

 

****

 

The black car smelled as if it was brand new, a curious mixture of chemical leather and crisp plastic, making Greg feel as if he were in a tilt-a-whirl with no way to get off. Sweat coated the back of his neck coolly, and he swallowed again against the well of panic struggling to work itself free from his throat. Instead it seemed to only make the pressure tighter. A bottle of pop, shaken then pressed under a crate. The shadows from London's city streaked over his face like war-paint, brown eyes illuminated in brief flashes of gold. The windows were just tinted enough that the young man wasn't entirely certain where he was being taken.

 

Only that he had no choice.

 

_Would you please get in the car?_

 

Sally had been intelligent.  _She_ had refused. Adamantly. But Greg couldn't help but suspect that if she had been the one the mysterious stranger had really wanted, then she would have found herself in the backseat right beside him. The new D.I clasped his hands loosely between his knees, shaking his head once again at how insane all of this was. How mental it seemed this evening had turned. First catching a glimpse of a boy he hadn't seen in  _years_ (strung out and possibly mentally challenged, no less) then the pure  _confounding_ elements of the case to begin with (a random body beside the claimed suicide) and  _now_ being called on by a complete stranger, and worse, he was  _going willingly_ without a fight. Greg's fingers raked through his hair, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. It hissed through his teeth like a snake's breath, and did little to soothe his nerves.

 

Little did he know that Crow was perched beside him, greeting an old friend seated primly in the passenger seat. Though the years had changed both their Humans, angels at their most base element would always remain the same. Greg's guardian's head was tilted to the side in curiosity, and his voice was soft and thoughtful as he took in Anthea's outline with narrowed eyes.

 

“I didn't think I'd see you again, truthfully.” The angel murmured to the chocolate-haired angel, wings twitching in greeting. The cold, beautiful creature flicked her wings in reciprocation, a small smile gracing her lips as she murmured

 

“It seems as to where Sherlock is concerned, we are bound to reconnect.”

 

“If he is to be involved in a life of crime, then it's quite possible. My Chosen and I have recently acquired a respectable place on the police force.”

 

Anthea's smile only grew, and she giggled slightly as she turned to look at her lap, where a dark black mobile rested in her palm. The darker angel's eyes rose in surprise as he read the scrawl of a weapon's mantra on its back,  _Conscienta  _scribed in silver across the black cover. The angel wondered just how dangerous something as small as a phone could truly be. He thought about it again when his old friend replied

“Oh, we know  _all_  about you and your Chosen. Of that, you can be assured.”

 

And she fell silent as she continued to flick her fingers across her screen, eyes darting across what looked to be rather secretive files at lightning speed. For no real reason, Greg felt a small twinge of a chill come from his shoulder. He rubbed it away with warm fingers absently. Crow's voice was low and calm, but he held in his tone a small note of mocking disapproval.

 

“Come now, the least your Chosen could have done was invite us for dinner if he plans to get to know us.”

 

“He plans to get to know  _anyone_ who is be associated with Sherlock, which I know you soon will be rather... intimately.”

And those brown eyes flicked to the tattoo that lay fresh on the angel's chest, smile vanishing as her voice took on an edge of seriousness.

“I have a rather... unfortunate weak spot for John. He is much like my baby brother, just as Sherlock is biologically related to Mycroft. We would not want the one chosen to protect all that he loves while he's away to be... incompetent at their job.”

 

Crow's eyes narrowed, and his wings sparked with challenging flecks of lime green.

“If I recall correctly, we have done just fine in taking care of your brother without any problems. In fact, you could say we did so when you  _could not_ , no?”

 

“That was a long time ago.” Anthea murmured, although Crow saw her feathers shift minutely, and his own hand-printed colour on her wings glinted.

“People change.”

 

“Not really.”

 

She smiled at him then, and some of her ice exterior melted away. His own answering grin was decidedly roguish, silly, and to his surprise and delight, she laughed.

“No, they don't. They just become better... or worse.”

 

And they spent the remainder of the ride in silence, merely observing one another. One of them analysing and breaking apart what had happened to the strange angel she had met all those years ago, the other merely taking in the way her eyes lit up in calculation like stars in the night.

 

Greg barely noticed when he relaxed against the seat.

 

****

The warehouse was cold, and Greg shivered as he stepped out of the car, clutching at his arms protectively even as mist streamed from between his clenched teeth. Just once, he wished the psychopathic killer didn't have to be so dramatic and demand to be met in the most hostile conditions possible. He briefly wondered why no one could be demanding that he meet them in  _Hawaii_ instead of a parking lot, which is what it was as it turned out. Greg blinked, his vision rapidly coming back to him in the dim light to make out the silhouette of an imposing figure leaning on what he thought at first was a cane.

 

Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a brolly. One that he recognised with a growing sense of frustration at the world. Just to make sure, Greg stepped into the light, squinting so that he could see the features that had been aged by time as much as power. He felt a groan slip past his teeth in utter exasperation.

 

Cold blue eyes, paler than shards of glass. Dark hair that at one point would have been ginger, but was now a deep auburn. Sharp, bleak edge for a nose. There was no mistaking that sneer of contempt for the rest of the world. The D.I this time stopped completely, groaning aloud as he let his head fall into his hands.

 

“Why is it that whenever something is about to happen in my life, it always inevitably leads to  _you blokes?_ ”

 

The elder Holmes for his part, seemed a little miffed that the man so quickly recognised him. He hid it under a mask of ice, but Greg found he could see under it, just as well as he had that evening so many years ago.

“I trust the drive caused you no ill?”

 

“No ill at all, save for the fact that you made me think I was being taken away to be murdered.”

The D.I muttered sarcastically, glaring at the man in front of him. He found himself no longer afraid, and he stood his ground even as he mentally wiped away the years from the man before him.

 

Mycroft had certainly changed. Though in a way, he was still pieces of the lanky teenager Greg had gotten to know for a moment a long time ago. He still dressed sharply, suit pristine and ordered, not a lock of hair not slicked back into its place. His eyes still held that cool calculation that could freeze someone in their tracks and make them feel as if they were only a foot tall. Yet around those eyes were lines of worry, tension and fear. Though Mycroft can't have been that old, he seemed older to Greg, and it wasn't just due to the fact that his tie was done perfectly straight.

His voice was deeper too.

It sent tiny ripples of something unidentifiable through the man's spine.

 

“And yet you still got in the car.” He mused, hands wrapping over the handle of his umbrella almost absently. Greg swallowed.  _My umbrella_ he thought.

The fact that the man had kept it after all this time did little to soothe the D.I's nerves. The fact was, he hadn't seen hide nor hair of either of the Holmes' brothers since his last day at school, and part of him had been more than a little disappointed that the elder of the two hadn't at least dropped a visit to say hello. Not that Greg had truly expected such a thing to happen (even as a teenager he had never been stupid) but still he could remember the twisting emotion in his gut that had wreaked havoc with his thoughts. Part of it had been due to the death of his brother, the need to  _be_ around someone who might actually  _care_ had been strong in him for some time after, and Greg had spent more than a few nights getting pissed to eliminate it. Yet most of it had gone away since his engagement to his wife-to-be, Rebecca.

 

Now though, it came to the forefront, an old wound forgotten but not wholly healed.

“Well, when I saw your brother looking like little more than a street-bum, I figured this night had already gone to hell.”

 

At the mention of his brother Sherlock, Mycroft seemed to straighten. His eyes darkened slightly in thought, and Greg thought he could detect the faintest note of interest underneath the mask of indifference as the mysterious man murmured

“Yes, my brother does have.... a tendency to turn things to hell...”

 

But the way he said it sounded almost sad, and Greg wondered how many times in one night he could ask himself what could change a person so drastically that they'd look like a stranger before his eyes. His voice was low.

“What happened to him?”

 

“That is a complicated question, Mr. Lestrade. One that does not have a set price.”

 

“Greg. Call me Greg.”

Only his teachers had called him Mr. Lestrade. Too stuffy, even for a toff, which was evidently what Mycroft had turned out to be. A rich toff, stiff and stuffy and  _annoying._ Greg told himself this savagely, even as he willed himself not to get roped once again into a situation that might hurt him later on. He was older now, and wiser. Plus, he could tell that hanging around Mycroft was an air of desperation. Desperate people manipulated others. First rule he had learned, and not from the police force. From his father. Mycroft's voice was cold as if it pained him to admit any weakness. His back was stiff and proud.

 

“....Gregory. My brother... we are currently not on speaking terms and given light of certain information found.... I believe he is in need of a.... companion of sorts...”

 

_To keep him from doing drugs._

Greg realised, and his eyes widened at the audacity of what Mycroft wanted him to do. He couldn't protect his brother! He could barely protect himself! He hadn't even been able to keep his  _own_ brother safe...

And Greg firmly cut off that thought, before the pain of it could spasm through his features.

 

“You mean a bodyguard?”

 

“More like a back-up plan.”

 

“And what brought this on? Why do you think if he's not willing to talk to you that he'd talk to me?”

 

“Because you can do what I cannot. You can be what he needs.”

 

“Which would be...?”

 

“A friend.”

 

“Friends don't just  _happen,_ Mycroft. But you wouldn't know that, would you?”

The jab was low, but the D.I didn't regret it. He was tired of having his chain yanked, and was determined to gain control of the conversation. The man across from him frowned, voice taking on an impatient tone as his manipulation didn't work. Greg was distinctly reminded of Sherlock in that moment, the teen's face still fresh in his mind, sulking and thunderous. Like a cat soaked from rain.

“ _Fine_  then. A net. Someone to steer him in the right direction. A distraction.”

 

“What am I, a goldfish he can teach tricks to?”

 

The man smiled then, grin wide and surprisingly charming as he purred

 

“ _Precisely.”_

 

“Jesus Christ, I thought I'd gotten through all of this. I thought this was a one-time deal. You don't even  _know_ me.” Greg exclaimed, and to mark his point he threw his hands up in the air, leaning back to pinch the bridge of his nose and exhale roughly so that his chest heaved. His eyes fluttered shut in barely suppressed indignation.

 

However if he was annoyed, then Mycroft must have been truly  _irritated._ The man sighed as if the D.I was being exceedingly dull, and without preamble, began to take him apart out loud, piece by piece. It was like experiencing being shot at by multiple guns without any means of protection. Loud, painful, and messy.

 

“Evidently you were mistaken. Word of advice: Dealing with either my brother or I tends to make us remember you for a long time. Be it a positive or negative connotation, well that depends on your luck. I know you have recently been promoted to Detective Inspector, that you completed your education at a lesser school than the one which you were kicked out from. I know a member of your family that you were close to died- sister? No, brother. Quite traumatising for not only you but your other brothers as well. Your mother fell into depression, and since then hasn't wholly gotten herself back. You feel partly responsible for her sadness and yet cannot fix it so it drives you to find distraction from your guilt. Hence the fiancée, who is not a good match for you but you are unwilling to pull away as she is the first connection you've had in quite some time. Possibly since I met you at that gate. ”

 

The man's frost-ridden eyes crackled with a kind of intimidating force. In that glance Greg could feel the weight of the man's power, hidden in the folds of his suit like shadows. Greg wasn't sure just  _what_ kind of job Mycroft Holmes now had, but he  _was_ aware of one thing:

There was no way he could know all of the information he had just shared without having access to some seriously guarded files.

 

“And what am I?”

 

Mycroft didn't respond. Instead, he swung the handle of the umbrella in his palm, twirling it in his grip with absent-minded amusement. Greg could tell it was all a part of his game. Like a cat toying with a mouse.

 

“What do you need?”

 

Mycroft's gaze flickered, and his brow wrinkled as if such a comment was a personal offence.

“I believe you are quite mistaken-”

 

“ _Mycroft.”_

And Greg stepped tentatively forward, glare firm. He stood in the man's personal space, not an ounce afraid even though he knew that logically he should be. His voice was soft and gentle.

“What do you need?”

 

And the government official finally met his eyes, and Greg saw in them exhaustion. Panic. Worry. The man's voice was somehow small despite its depth. In that moment, they were once again two school-boys. Not quite trusting each other and yet unable to find any other choice. Mycroft's voice was stripped of all manipulation as he whispered

“I need you to protect him.”

 

And then

“Please. Because he will not let me do my job. So _you_ must.”

 

Greg, feeling an ache he didn't quite acknowledge, nodded slowly. He knew it would be like this, somehow. No apologies for never attempting to talk to him, no explanation. No answers. But he was used to that, and somehow, he didn't much mind as he might've a long time ago. His voice was defeated, even though he had technically won the debate. He reached out then, rather timidly squeezing the man's arm. He was rather surprised when the ice man didn't move away. Instead he fixed him a look of such innocent confusion and vulnerable fear that Greg felt his throat tighten, and his chest squeeze.

_Win the battle, lose the war._

 

“Really, all you had to do was ask.”

 

****

The attack came out of nowhere, and God quite suddenly found his thoughts rather full of screaming angels, shrieking and clamouring to get his attention as he automatically transported himself to London, the heart of the issue. What he saw caused his throat to go dry.

 

_Wolves._

 

Thousands of them, roaming in great packs in the street. Massive and stream-lined and deadly in power as they effortlessly leaped over abandoned cars and _bodies._ Bodies everywhere, so many that for a moment he swayed with the shock of it, a hundred souls disintegrating from the future's timeline in the blink of an eye. He saw them all, dissolving like snow before his eyes and leaving him feeling almost woozy. God shook his head, body coiling at the edge of the roof he stood on to leap with a snarl and a crunch to the pavement below.

 

He landed in front of a pack of six or seven of the monsters, snarling and snapping and growling while chasing after a family ( _Clarissa and Jackie Brown, mother and daughter, child age 10 mother age 36, one cat and a goldfish.. Daughter will someday find the cure to alzheimers, after mother has passed away from it-). _The wolves found themselves quite suddenly faced off by a massive gold lion, its maw opening to let loose a roar that shook the very building around it and rumbled the very earth. The beasts halted in their tracks, ears flattening against their skulls as whines escaped their throats and they flinched away from a God's wrath. Behind the lion, mother and child screamed and scrambled away, tearing down an opposite alley. The lion's ears flicked towards them, but he did not take his eyes off of the wolves before them. He took in their collars, read the Humans beneath the fur coat of their beasts.

 

Flexing his massive gold paws, the lion roared again, and this time the wolves felt themselves being pulled to the ground, shaking and twitching as their transformations came over them. God watched, lavender eyes seeing bones shift and realign themselves, grinding together in forced and painful clicks as the wolves were forced to sleep, leaving their Human shape behind.. He wasted no time. Calling out mentally, God barked orders.

 

_Michael! What has happened?!_

 

A moment's later, the angel replied.

 

_**Sir, they are not from Scheol. I know every wolf. Every vampire. Every Demon. These are but pups, you can tell their age just by looking at them. These, they've been made recently. Not born. Bite marks on one I was forced to kill. I'm at Westminister, protecting a shopping Mall. Death is having a near panic-attack, they're not happy about this at all.** _

 

A pregnant pause.

 

Then, grimly.

_**Sir, people are seeing us. They're.... angels are being forced to come out of hiding to protect their Chosen. Shields are down. Laws are being broken by the minute. We... Everything's compromised.** _

 

The lion knew. He could hear it, crawling across his fur and causing his hackles to rise in discomfort. Prayers, half-bitten off screams of thought begging him to let them live, fear and panic settling over London and spreading like a plague. The wolves were stretching outward, seeking more blood. There was no time.

Rumbling a low growl of assent, God shut his eyes in decisive regret.

His tone was heavy as he saw what the future was to be like, and how little chance there was of reversal. It was kill or be killed, and he would not let this get further out of hand.

 

_Let it happen. I'm issuing code: FREEFALL into effect. All angels are temporarily exempt from the laws. They are only to protect as many lives as possible. The people of London at this point are more important than our own secrets. Conserve as much life asyou can. If anyone sees  **The Snake**  they are to call out to as many other angels as are available for back-up until I can get there. We're not letting him get outside of this city._

 

And the screams of hundreds drowned out the cry of two, even as John and Sherlock struggled against the ringmaster wickedly guiding them all like puppets on a string.


	27. Key To War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! :) Song is Fire by Noah Gunderson! Hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for all the kind kudos and comments! :3

 

 

 

_when the devil came to visit me_   
_he said son i am your enemy_   
_fear me_   
_but it came to my surprise_   
_i was drawn by the fire_   


_i was told to find Jesus_   
_in a stained glass church_   
_where the light shines red like blood_

_and the eyes of his children_   
_were so bitterly burned_   
_that i could not stand to look at them_

  


 

 

Sherlock strained against the invisible force that held him place, feeling panic seize in his chest and tighten like elastic bands coiling about the pounding of his heart. The shadows of the pool were stretching out about him, and the glow of the pool in the distance, close but still so far away filled his mind.

 

John.

John was not resurfacing. The water was still and calm, the only indication that anything had disturbed it the faint blur of colour underneath that Sherlock found himself unable to look away from.

 

John was drowning.

He could feel it, like a crawling asthma in his lungs. Like a hand wrapping itself about his throat. And then the more chaotic feelings and thoughts, swirling in his brain and desperately trying to come together, chunks and pieces of a puzzle that made no sense.

 

John had _wings._

John was.... what _was he?_

 

Sherlock had no answer, and soon his attention was diverted, as the man that stood before him clapped his hands together sharply, grinning like a cat that had gotten into the cream.

At least... the detective _thought_ he was a man. Truthfully, being pinned to the wall as he was, nearly three feet in the air by no discernible force, Sherlock was beginning to doubt the logic of his mind.

 

But as disoriented as he was, again and again his mind landed on the one constant of his life. The golden rule:

If you have eradicated the impossible, then whatever remains no matter how improbable must be true.

 

And before him, was for what appeared intents and purposes appeared to be, a demon grinned sickly under the sallow lighting of the pool. Tucked behind him under the bleachers was the massive, furred shape of _something_ monstrous, part wolf and more teeth and danger, and in the pool was the inescapable, impossible _John._

 

However improbable must be true, but Sherlock felt nausea from shock threatening to rise to the back of his throat, and it wasn't just because there was a terrible aching along his ribs. Like water pressure building underneath the skin, invisible but still felt.

 

The man before him was soft-spoken, for someone with such a manic glint in his eye. Through the haze of panic and confusion, Sherlock's eyes traced over the line of the man's figure, taking in the expensive Westwood suit, the polish on his shoes. The dark hair that glinted, slicked back and professional. All spoke of wealth and power, and the expression on the man's face was one of a killer's. It didn't take long for the name to click, and when the detective gasped harshly, it came out as a condensed exclamation of realisation.

 

“Moriarty!”

 

“Ooh, good boy. You've figured it out.” The man grinned, and Sherlock swallowed, his eyes widening as he saw the slight pointed tips of canines unnaturally bright. As if on cue the massive monster from the shadows growled, the sound shivering through the detective's spine and making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He struggled to remain calm, all the while looking desperately at the rippling surface of the pool. There was no movement, none that he could detect anyway. He refused to think of what that might mean.

“I've been keeping an eye on you for a loooooong time Sherlock, very long indeed. It's a pleasure to meet you, truly it is.”

 

The man held out his hand, and to Sherlock's horror, he felt his own arm responding in kind. Still struggling, his hand raised itself to meet Moriarty's, the cup of the man's palm at once burning and icy cool. “James Moriarty. At your service.” The man's grin quirked upwards further, and he mock-bowed to the floating prisoner above him. When he released his grip on Sherlock's hand, the rest of the force released as well. Sherlock fell to his knees, gasping for breath like a dying man, a strange keening noise of distress leaving his lips before he could bring himself to control it.

 

Moriarty stood above him, tutting under his breath. His voice was as fake-concerned as it was gleeful.

“Yeah, you might feel just a wee bit uncomfortable. Happens sometimes, when your Guardian's dying.”

 

_Guardian._

 

Sherlock wheezed, scrambling as quickly as he could manage to his feet, forcibly regaining his composure as he struggled to get his chest to stop heaving. To stop being a trembling mass of sinew and bones and blood and heartbeat _pounding._

 

After a moment in which he panted and stared down the man before him defiantly, his voice came out croakily from his clenched teeth.

“Let John go.”

 

His captor looked for a moment mildly unimpressed, the smile shrinking as he sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Is that really all you've got to say? A pedestrian response at best, truly. All of this _new_ data, and you choose to beg for the life of your flatmate?”

 

Sherlock's lips tightened together, and for the first time, he willingly repeated himself. Quietly, his eyes burned like stars, desperation leaving a minute tremble along his frame.

 

“Let John go.”

 

“Don't you want to know what's going on? Don't you have _any_ theories? Come now, The Game can't be discarded just because your _pet_ is suffering from some mild discomfort.” Moriarty continued as if he hadn't spoken at all, pausing to shrug lazily.

“It won't kill him you know. This. We're stronger than your kind. Sure, it's painful, but he won't die. At least, not right now.”

 

The man's cat-like, unreadable expression sharpened.

“What would you do, to save him? What would you have to gain by it? It's obvious he's been lying to you from the start. What's to say anything he's ever told you was even true? Come on, Sherlock. Play The Game.” His voice dropped then, a rumbling purr as his unnerving smile grew back again like a flower in bloom. There was a distinct clicking noise, and Sherlock looked down only to jerk half away in surprise. Crawling along Moriarty's hand was a jet black insect, eight legs stretching out and mandibles hissing before it crawled along the man's elbow. A giant spider. “Play The Game. Ask me something. We can do twenty questions. I'll show you mine if you show me yours first. You like deductions, don't you? What can you guess and ferret out now that your entire world's been turned upon its head?”

 

The spider seemed to flex its long, spindly legs, tucked into Moriarty's arm like a clicking pet. Sherlock's jaw worked, his breath slow and shallow. His eyes flicked instinctively towards the gun lying several feet away, glinting on the tile. As if on cue, the creature with yellow eyes glowing from under the bleachers growled in warning. Moriarty's voice became icy and cold.

 

“Unless of course, you want to watch your John suffer some more.”

 

And the hand that wasn't holding the spider suddenly raised, the pool water bubbling and frothing even as John's frame came sputtering out of the water. The angel hung limp and useless in the air, water streaming from his mouth and nose as the angel tried to expel the liquid in his lungs. John's wings quivered, near-grey and lifeless. Sherlock thought absently that they might have been beautiful, had they not been water-logged and streaked with a shimmering substance that he suspected to be blood.

 

The man was frighteningly unresponsive, save for the feeble, flailing attempts to get as much air as he physically could into his system. Eyes wild and wounded, John's gaze fluttered towards Sherlock with an instinct that was near heartbreaking to watch. The creature let out a soft moan when he saw how Moriarty loomed over the detective, though his chin soon slumped helplessly to his chest. The detective felt as if his throat was being squeezed, though nothing was wrapped around it.

 

His voice came out deadly calm. Sharp as gravel. If he was going to play, he was going to make his opponent _suffer._ He _would_ get answers. The thought made his hands bunch into tight fists, and he lifted his head defiantly as the cloud of emotions cleared to make way for the mast of frost and iron control.

“Who are you? What is your interest in me?”

 

Moriarty's smile was back, and this time it was accompanied by a light chuckle. The man dropped his hand to his side, but John remained motionless in the air. Hovering over the pool as a silent threat.

“I have many names. The Snake, The Betrayer. In old texts I'm even occasionally called something _nice._ However simply put, I am your equivalent of... The Devil.”

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his answer was instinctive and immediate, bursting from his lips before he could help himself.

“That is impossible-”

 

“You've been hovered in the air by almost three feet and you're staring at what looks to be an angel that has been tortured by supernatural methods. I think _impossible_ left the docking station a long time ago, yes?”

 

As if to illustrate his point, John's wings twitched a sick sort of purple-green. Sherlock swallowed, eyes narrowing to steady himself even as Jim nodded in approval at his calm.

 

“I would assume then if there is a Devil... then there is a God?”

 

But Moriarty didn't respond, smiling and tapping the side of his mouth. No question answered, it was no longer Sherlock's turn. The Detective scowled, lips drawing tightly together.

 

Those black, unreadable eyes appeared endless, emotionless. Sherlock supposed if there _was_ a Devil, the grinning monster before him would fit the bill. In fact it was strangely poetic, how Jim Moriarty didn't appear as a red-skinned imp or a snarling beast. Just a man, arguably the most dangerous of all of the creatures on the earth's planet.

“My turn.” Moriarty's head tilted slightly to the left, and when he spoke, his voice held in it a playful drawl.

 

“What is your... relationship with John Watson?”

 

The detective blinked in surprise, his lips immediately coming to deny any kind of emotion or attachment- except the words seemed to stick on the roof of his mouth, slow and syrupy. He worked and struggled against his own throat, frozen into silence but fighting. The Devil laughed, throwing his head back in utter disbelief.

“You're trying to _lie?_ To _me?_ Are you _joking?_ ”

 

Sherlock's breath was sharp as it hissed through his clenched teeth, his expression murderous even in his silence. After a beat of silence, his voice came. It was croaky and rasped, as if he had been gargling nails.

“... He's my best friend.... My only friend...my....”

 

The detective's throat clicked, and his eyes closed as the words came forced out of him. It burned, pounding on his tongue hot and sour. A shiver trembled along the edge of his spine, quivering like a wire pulled taught.

“ _My Heart...”_

 

The Devil nodded slowly. Sherlock slumped slightly, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders. Moriarty's gaze was strangely.... soft. Gentle despite the madness so obviously roiling within his veins. His voice was dark and quiet.

“You would do anything not t lose him. And you'd do anything to have him for yourself.”

It wasn't a question, but still Sherlock felt himself nodding helplessly. Like a puppet with his strings tangled and gnarled and knotted beyond all control.

 

Moriarty hummed to himself, tongue dragging across his teeth slowly. They both knew the question Sherlock was going to ask next. The detective's voice was grave as he spoke, and he got the impression that a part of him was aware already of the answer. His voice seemed to hang in the pool, floating within the air.

 

“Someone is going to try and take him away, aren't they?”

 

Moriarty's voice wrapped about him like a noose.

 

“There is a war, Mr. Holmes. One that has been going on and off now for a very long time. Christianity is just the latest shell that has been adopted in an ancient battle between two very different sides, and though you don't know it, you are a key to winning the war.”

 

Moriarty shrugged, gaze flicking to the spider curled by his arm. The creature crawled across the man's chest, nuzzling against his cheek before resting at his shoulder. The beady eyes of the creature appeared to glint as they looked at Sherlock, knowing some secret that wasn't being spoken. The detective looked and saw that battle clung to the man before him, painted on his skin. Soaked in his very breath. A warzone. The living embodiment of chaos.

 

After a moment, Sherlock spoke.

 

“And what side are you on?”

 

Moriarty's smile turned mocking.

 

“Your side. Humanity's side.”

He looked at his immaculate nails, knowing he held something to bargain with even as he spoke.

 

“Though he doesn't think so, John's side.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, and when he exhaled Moriarty piped up again, question slicing through the detective's concentration. So many new puzzle pieces were floating in the air, and Sherlock's mind was quickly clicking together the interlocking equations as fast as they appeared.

 

“Do you want to survive this, Sherlock Holmes? No, do you want to more than just survive, do you want to start living your _life_ amidst this war? I can give you it. Happiness. The chance to make things right with John. All you'll have to do is offer me something. Something only you can give.”

 

“Hasn't there been enough stories warning against a deal with the Devil?” Sherlock quirked a dark brow, still maintaining his mask a moment longer before his gaze slid back to John. Inch by inch, the slowly shifted towards the gun. It was barely noticeable, but somehow the detective got the distinct impression that the spider on Moriarty's shoulder was quite aware of what he was doing. And if the spider knew, chances were the Devil knew too.

 

“Yes, well, most of the time it's not really a deal. It's blackmail. I'm not above using it.” Moriarty stated dryly, shoulders shrugging mock-apologetically. Sherlock's returning smile was chilly.

 

“What are my other options?” He stated coldly.

 

“Getting eaten by wolves, evoking God's anger ten-fold for breaking half a dozen rules just by talking to me, not to mention the fact that my pack is currently invading London at an alarming rate. Might be a bit not good to piss off the new future ruler of the city, just saying.”

 

Nodding curtly, Sherlock blinked.

“I guess I don't have much choice then. Do I?”

 

Moriarty's laugh was warm. It shook his entire frame.

“I'm glad to see we're all on the same time.”

 

He held out his hand in a gesture of agreement.

When Sherlock reached out to take that hand, the Devil's touch ignited a fire in his fingertips. With a cry, the detective fell to his knees. In the corner of his eye, he could see John tremble in unconsciousness, a low moan leaving the angel's throat. Then white washed over Sherlock's vision, and heat bloomed and tingled along the crook of his elbow. When his vision cleared, Moriarty and the wolf were gone. But his words still echoed in the pool, bouncing bell-like across the walls.

 

_Can't stay long now, but rest assured we will be talking again soon. If you need me, don't be afraid to give a call. Blood works better than anything else._

 

Sherlock stared at his elbow. Lying stretched out in ink from the crook of his arm to his wrist, was a black and red spider. It seemed to glow hot in his eyes.

 

Almost an afterthought, Moriarty's voice faded and rippled to nothing.

 

_Give my regards to John.... Tell him that if he wants answers all he has to do is ask._

 

Sherlock could feel the bile, filling like blood on the back of his tongue and throat. But then there was John, lying at the edge of the pool. John, who was crumpled like a glass figurine knocked off of a shelf.

 

John who was very much still alive.

John Watson, who had _bloody wings._

 

****

Anthea's wings were twin sails that beat aggressively, the wind from them slicing through the air and striking the massive wolf square in the chest, causing the creature to stumble back. A snarl ripped from the creature's throat, their gold eyes flashing with red murder even as the wolf tried to lunge again, snapping and snarling and trying to gain purchase. Its roar was only just drowned out by the angel's furious shriek, her pale hands claw-like as they came to grip the creature's throat. The wolf's strength was massive, but Anthea was quick and light on her feet, and she held in her the strength of a creature so beyond the likes of Human nature.

 

Rolling together like tightly interwoven cogs, the two creatures rolled back over chest again and again, barely feeling it as their bodies collided into vases and desks. The furniture gave way under their violence, shattering and splintering in a great flurry of noise.

 

In the corner, Mycroft stared. His brain struggled to accept the image that was playing out before him, and his mouth was parted in what many would have described as shock, had the expression been on anyone else. The two creatures before him, locked in fierce battle, appeared to pay him no mind. However much like going down a flight of stairs only to come across an extra step where there hadn't been one before, Mycroft felt as if he was falling.

 

When the horrific crunch of bone sounded, the government official felt rather than heard the howl of triumph. A flash of agony crossed over his rib-cage. The pain grounded him in an instant, and without hesitation, Mycroft dove for his desk. Opening the secret compartment, he pulled out the polished handle of a gun.

 

Without thinking about harming the angel, his weapon aimed for the snarling wolf.

 

The two shots he fired had been the steadiest firing he had ever attempted in his life.

The furred beast let out a painful howl as the weapon kicked in his hand, jaws opening wide in a cry before it slumped to the ground. Kill shot, directly between its eyes.

Slowly, the dark-haired woman rose from where she had been pinned to the floor. Her chocolate-coloured eyes looked at Mycroft as if she were seeing a phantom. They were filled with fear and dread.

 


	28. Lockdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a long time coming and I apologise for the wait profusely ^.^'' 
> 
> BUT here we go. The actual battle begins...
> 
> The song is september by Marianas Trench :)

 

 

_Lost and useless_   
_no more bruises_   
_I'll burn this place down_   
_Don't make no sound_   
  
_September won't you bring me some rain again?_   
_This sun is melting my skin_   
_And I would give you anything to feel something else_   
  
_September falls away 'till I'm broken_   
_I just hate the sound_   
_And I can feel the water changing me,_   
_it's changing me for good_

 

 

 

 

John dreamed that the world was made of snow.

Falling, _falling,_ falling down upon him, burying him in layers. Except he wasn't cold. No.

Quite the opposite in fact.

 

He felt warm, sluggish even. Safe. So safe. Gentle heat wrapped about him, swaddling him from all darkness that had once pulsed through his very blood. Black like tar.

 

He felt clean...

 

He felt _content._

 

That's when his thoughts filtered through the haze of relief, humming in his blood.

Something was droning, right around his shoulder. It took the angel a moment to recognise the banal sound, howling like a swarm of angry bees and sending waves of heat coursing through him.

Someone was holding a hair-dryer to his wings.

Someone was _caring..._ for his _wings._

 

And the angel's eyes snapped open woozily, a muttered noise of confusion tearing from his throat before a familiar alabaster hand was pinning his chest in place, stopping him from sitting up from his side. Sherlock's rumbling drawl sounded relieved despite its ire, the detective's dry amusement masking the concern that John could feel thrumming through their Bond.

 

“Now, now John. I do not claim to be a doctor nor have I ever, but even I can guess that the stitches that I've applied are close to useless at best and completely unhelpful at worst. Let's not aggravate them before you can get a look at them.”

 

John watched as Sherlock's sharp features floated in and out of focus above him, splitting into several Sherlock's before melding back into one. He blinked, running his dry tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to formulate the words for his thoughts. The largest one screaming in his head _demanded_ to know what happened, how Sherlock was so _calm_ even while carefully fluffing out each individual feather, carefully without touching them. The methodical pace with which he worked was like the steady hand of a clock, and the leaden weight of water that John felt being steadily dried from himself alerted the angel to the fact that he must have been bathed. Somehow, this is what gave him the sense to panic.

 

Disregarding Sherlock's earlier caution, John sat up, pushing the detective away only to pull him a second closer as memories came flooding back to him.

 

Moriarty.

 

_Sherlock with Moriarty._

 

Pain.

Agony.

 

Sherlock blinked as John roughly pulled him into an embrace, wings quivering automatically before curling themselves gingerly like a cloak about them. The detective gaped as he watched the delicate primary feathers begin to tinge and shift from their original blue-green, John's worry turning his wings into a magnificent and blazing scarlet even as the angel's eyes burned with sick guilt.

“Sherlock, _God,_ are you okay? You're not hurt?”

 

John felt his flatmate's mouth open, and it looked for a moment that Sherlock might retort with something callous and sarcastic. Instead what came out of his mouth was more of a shocked whimper as he saw the mottled myriad of feathers surrounding him. His voice was small and wondering.

 

“John... you have _wings..._ ”

 

Sherlock felt warm arms encircling him then, and John's croaky, hoarse laugh sounded close to relieved tears. His flatmate shook his head in minute confirmation against Sherlock's shoulder, and he trembled in the sheets protecting his modesty (Sherlock had found John too heavy to redress after he had washed him).

 

“Yes... Yes...” The ex-army doctor exhaled slowly, his warm breath fluttering against Sherlock's collar-bone. He didn't seem to realise how close his bare chest was to Sherlock's, not that the detective was exactly complaining. Instead, he was deathly silent, still like a statue that had frozen, never again to come to life. He was still gaping at the great stretch of wings surrounding him, shifting in a mirage of conflicting emotions, both his own and John's. The angel was panicking, even as more memories came to him.

Snippets of time.

Sherlock knew.

 

_Sherlock knew everything._

 

And with that thought, the angel's chest filled with panic. Acrid and acid, threatening bile to his tongue.

_There was only one destination for an angel that had revealed the secrets._

 

Banishment.

 

And then

_I'll never see him again._

 

**_Father will-_ **

 

John's breath came more quickly, and with his fear the bed the two men sat on quivered, and the detective watched as scarlet turned into sickly yellow-green, anxious and twitched-through with spots of grey. The rate of his flatmate's breathing alarmed him, turning towards hyperventilation. Sherlock made as if to speak, but he was suddenly dragged so that he was flat on his back, eyes wide as saucers as John's eyes filled with an instinctive, protective rage. The angel _snarled,_ the sound low and dangerous in his chest, and his smaller body seemed to powerfully shield Sherlock, wings turning a fierce and deadly gold and black. Each feather seemed to glitter like stardust.

Looking into his dark blue eyes, Sherlock felt a sliver of fear. Certainly not the first one he had experienced that night. For a moment his thoughts flicked to the monster he had locked in _**221 C**_ , likely still snarling and howling its heart out. John in that moment looked... certainly not _Human,_ his teeth bared and his bare chest heaving with an aggressive need to protect. Like a creature from a tragic poem, he seemed to glow with terrible, destructive beauty.

 

No, not _seem_ to.

 

_He **was** glowing _ (an automatic response to extreme stress)

 

Sherlock found himself lifting one pale hand to reach out, making as if to touch, but the angel's voice suddenly turned sharp and feral. John's hands tightened on Sherlock's biceps, a warning in his tone that was as much a plea as it was a command.

 

“ _Don't._ Not yet. Just... Give me a mo'.”

 

Like he was holding a wild animal, Sherlock slowly lowered his fingers. His voice was low and desperate, understanding that his flatmate was frightened and possessive. It was evident, obvious (heightened heart-rate, his  _feathers_ of all things fluffing up defensively, not to  _mention_ the ignored but not unnoticed erection digging into his hip) But there were a million questions racing through the man's mind, and all of them were demanding answers. He murmured them urgently, hands curling and uncurling into loose fists at his sides. Wanting to take action but afraid to provoke whatever wild thing had emerged from John's psyche. 

 

“John... Something's wrong with London.”

 

And Sherlock felt the angel's shoulders tighten, and John's voice was filled with confusion and doubt as he looked down, some of the heat cooling to be replaced by stumbling distress. 

“What... what do you-”

 

“John, I dragged you through several blocks of chaos. I don't know truthfully how I made it. The streets are on fire, _huge wolves_ attacking people... and.... and...”

 

Truthfully, he did know how he'd made it. But he wasn't ready to accept it yet. Wasn't ready to acknowledge more than  _one_ miracle before him, seemingly defying the laws of all nature and physics. Especially when that supposed miracle was a snarling and snapping  _nightmare_ downstairs. Mrs Hudson and her...  _angel_ had nearly had a fit at the sight of it.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes then, breathing the word like a whisper. It felt as if John's heart was being pierced by a longbow.

“ _Angels.”_

 

The ex-army doctor paused, blood thrumming in his veins as he mulled over Sherlock's words. Suddenly, he whipped his head to look at the windows, realising that he was in Sherlock's bedroom. Most notably, all the windows were draped with heavy blankets. Blacking out the sun and descending the flat into dark. Not a single light was on, and John could feel night lingering in his skin, thrumming.

 

Yet it was not quiet.

Not exactly.

It was...

 

_tense._

 

Like everything was hanging, dangling by a thread. As if noticing John's recognition of the situation, Sherlock's voice was soft. Low. Barely more than a breath.

 

“They've... they've stopped hunting... but they're roaming the streets... they've... Mrs Hudson's angel... he calls them...”

 

And in the dark, John felt Sherlock shudder, rippling sinuously beneath him. The faintest flash of fear trembled through his thoughts, and the angel's eyes widened. Because he could _hear_ them, even as the moon parted from the clouds, painting the bedroom even through the thick blankets faintly.

 

The howl that filled the air made the hair on John's neck rise. It filled his bones with lead and locked him into place, images flashing before his eyes that made him want to tremble. Sand. Desert. _**Scheol.**_ _Wolves._ And in that moment, he was a soldier after all. Reliving the PTSD that tremored in his left hand and made his teeth grit. Except it was a war unlike Sherlock had ever known, could have ever seen.

 

John's voice was deadly. Gaze sharp and clear like a cat's preparing to defend its prey. Sherlock watched as the angel on top of him curled about him defensively. The muscles of his scarred and powerful shoulders rolled with the movement. Tanned and flawed and _edged._

 

“Sherlock, I need you to listen to me.” John murmured, and his grip was unbreakable as his eyes swept the confines of the room. Too many windows. Not enough defence. All ready the angel felt his gut tightening.

If something decided to attack, they wouldn't stand a chance.

Turning to the detective, John cupped Sherlock's chin in his hands. His palms were warm against his cooler skin, safe. Sherlock found himself leaning into them instinctively. Something about the aura surrounding his flatmate. Something.... unidentifiable. Pulling like the sea.

 

John's voice was filled with the steel of an order, not a request.

 

“I need you to tell me what happened, and what's outside. Everything you can, Sherlock. I _mean_ it.”

 

Then John's wings, still gold and black began to turn silver, and his voice held in it a note of steel.

“And once you do, I need you to find my clothes, and bring me my gun.”

 

The angel would prepare for the worst.

After all, it appeared that he may very well be forced to deal with his problems on his own. 

No help was coming if no one came when he was being tortured by the Devil himself. 

And if the rage at that thought sent his wings briefly towards the colour of absolute night, then Sherlock's eyes were playing tricks on him. For John looked like light himself even as he straightened, shoulders setting for war. 

Because goodness knows, neither of them were going to go down.

Not without a fight. 

 

 


	29. Move Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay for this update being reasonably on time! XP the song is by Hurts (as requested by someone specifically) and is called "Illuminated" :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

 

 

 

_Suddenly my eyes are open,_   
_Everything comes into focus, oh,_   
_We are all illuminated,_   
_Lights are shining on our faces, blinded_   
  
_Swing me these sorrows,_   
_And try delusion for a while,_   
_Its such a beautiful night,_   
_You've got to lose inhibition,_   
_Romance your ego for a while,_   
_Come on, give it a try_

 

 

 

 

“I'm your Guardian, an angel meant to protect you. It's the most common type of angel there is, everyone on the planet has one. Well... most people, anyhow.”

 

John whispered this into Sherlock's ear even while leaning against the smooth expanse of the man's back, methodically looking over his gun and making sure it was properly cleaned and that the safety was clicked on. For now at least. His voice was a low and soothing thing in the silence of Sherlock's room, grey like the twilight that was threatening to peek out from the curtains. Soon the wolves wouldn't be able to shift, that would be the time for the detective and the angel to batten down the hatches, hide. John had no intention of his father finding them, but to hide completely required powers outside of his control. London was chaotic now, chances were his capture and subsequent likely banishment was relatively low on the list of things to attend to, but he had no desire of taking any chances.

 

John just hoped he was right in who he was placing his trust with.

 

“A Guardian's duty is to protect their Chosen, which in my case would be you. We angels... _I'm_ supposed to protect you until the day of your death, after which I'm supposed to help in escorting you... be it either to Heaven or to Hell.”

 

Against him, Sherlock grunted, questions already vibrating in his bones so that the angel could feel them, quivering against his wings. Until now the detective hadn't tried to reach out and touch those silky feathers again, but John could see the man's fingers twitching, wanting to stroke them, assure himself that what he was seeing wasn't just an elaborate mirage forged from some forgotten high or hallucination.

 

“So the Christians of all the deities in the world are correct, then? There are angels... and Demons... and... and-”

 

“Yes and no. Christianity as of right now is the religion that is the most common across the world, thus we fit into your beliefs. Our kind, we weren't always called angels. God... wasn't always just one God. We are... energy. The universe itself in a sense. We take the shape that most humans would imagine us to take. Ask a man on the street if he believes in druid spirits or a being with feathers and chances are they'll pick the idea of a cherub before an ancient belief. But every human, every soul on this earth is connected, through the Bond with their angel, if nothing else.”

 

“Angels are an ancient belief as well.”

“Not as old as some of the religions that have existed before.”

 

John refuted calmly, wings twitching as he mentally calculated just how long it would take to wade through the carnage in order to reach the Met. They'd be going by foot or by flight, but they'd be hindered by people injured, other angels... Not to mention there was no way of knowing if Greg was still at the Met.... he likely wasn't.

No cabs, the thought made John smile a little despite himself. Sherlock would complain, no doubt.

 

They had to try.

 

“If you're here... and I don't believe in God... Everyone has one, despite their faith or ideals?”

Sherlock murmured, eyebrows furrowing in faint confusion at the notion. At John's nod, the detective could be felt bringing his folded hands to his lips.

The question then, quieter.

“But I can _see_ you. You're here, John. I've known you... I know you.” The last part, thrown almost accusingly in his direction, and the unspoken question of _why didn't you tell me?_ Written between the space of their skin dividing them.

 

Carefully, John hedged.

“I'm... what's called an _AOD._ Angel On Duty... it was decided... Sherlock, some individuals have lives that are more dangerous than others. There was a risk with you from a very young age... you haven't exactly been kind to yourself.”

 

“But you only came after everything. After the drugs... after my mother's death...” Dawning realisation from the detective, and the man stiffened as he hissed “Before Vic-”

 

“Sherlock, _no._ ”

 

John turned then, setting his weapon aside to grip the man's shoulders. His finger's refused the detective's squirming firmly, forcing Sherlock to look John in the eye though he fought, lips pulled back in a snarl of contempt as the angel forced him to stay still. In his grip, Sherlock could feel the angel's resolve, the unwritten apology, lined in the set of his shoulder's. The shape of his mouth.

“Listen to me, Sherlock. Please. Even if you couldn't see me... even if I haven't always done the best job I could have... I have _never_ left you willingly. _Never._ I was there. I was there when you were small and learning your first words. I was there in first grade when you lost your first tooth- you used the fishing line and door trick, drove Mycroft near-crazy with your howling afterwards- I was there that time those bloody school kids almost killed you, razor blades, I know. I was there when you fell in love with Victor. I was there.”

 

And John's fingertips glowed softly as he saw that the detective was looking at him with suspicion, because this could not happen. Sherlock needed to _know._ He had to see... See just how much it hurt John, to see him suffer. How it had felt like a limb cut off each time he had failed him. His hands brushed Sherlock's temples, and softly the angel breathed a spell of  _ **Memento.**_

 

Immediately, the detective found it was as if a fog was being lifted around him, and his memories of his childhood felt as if a lens were being passed over the scenes of his boyhood. A shadow out of the corner of his eye when he was twelve suddenly melted into dark blue-green wings, a soft wind combing through his curls twisted themselves into sturdy hands. Strong arms supporting him as he heaved his childish body into the awaiting arms of a massive oak, hovering carefully under him lest he trip and fall. Gentle, woollen jumpers pressed to his cheek when his tears fell in great big droplets down his face, a ghostly source of comfort. Everything, every small piece of safety he had felt as a child when he was so alone from an unknown source, behind it was one softly smiling angel, looking at him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. Like he was something _brilliant, fantastic._

 

And for once, it was Sherlock breathing an awed _“Amazing.”_

 

When he opened his eyes, John was looking at him with the same expression he had worn in so many of the memories. An unguarded gaze of open admiration, awe and something else so pure that the detective for a moment felt once again like a child, his throat tight and his heart thundering deep within the cavern of his chest.

 

For one, dizzying second, Sherlock wondered how it might feel to kiss that smile, to feel it mould itself under his own lips. To breathe the name of the person who had for so long held his hand, even if only in secret. To have that smile illuminate him, show him how the world could be broken apart and connected like points all woven together by golden thread. To understand the world as it was, to not question it, as was his nature. Always his nature. 

 

But then the other images came, the period after Victor. The ones where John was gone, and a stranger stood over him, dark and still. The golden feeling in his stomach turned into night. Sherlock felt his chest constrict in a nameless kind of pain, and a small cry wrenched itself from his lips as he crumpled, eyes squeezing shut at the thought of another watching over him, of the golden-haired angel before him leaving. John seemed to expect it, holding Sherlock up, supporting him and whispering small apologies that cracked brokenly at seeing Sherlock in pain. When the detective finally found himself returning to the present, John was stroking a hand through his curls, cupping the nape of his neck that was trembling with a cold chill, muttering explanations even as the man rocked lowly, trying to manage the ache that appeared for no discernible reason in the middle of his gut.

 

“I know. I _know_ it hurts, it always hurts and I'm so, so sorry. I had no choice. It was payment. A test. To... to let me come here. To be here... _God_ , Sherlock, please. You'll hurt yourself, love, if you linger for too long in those memories.”

 

The endearment felt oddly natural coming from John's mouth, and Sherlock found himself trying to slow his breathing, push through the pain that was as instinctive as a child reaching out for its mother. Instead he forced his memories forward, past the drug-hazed years. Past the mornings waking up curled about Greg's toilet, clutching at the porcelain bowl and weakly vomiting. Grey and alone. He waded through them, making it out slowly, like he was swimming through thick tar. But at the end, he found himself embracing visions he knew.

 

A small, unassuming man entering St. Bart's lab. Limp, a cane. Bad shoulder. Tired smile.

But so pleased to see him for some reason, and until now Sherlock didn't quite understand why.

 

Now that he did, he wanted nothing more than to reach out, to hold.

But as he remembered, John had drawn away, curling in on himself. His hands had come to rest in his lap, and to Sherlock's wonder and private dismay the angel's feathers turned a hesitant and uncertain blue-brown. His quiet eyes softened with something that could only be described as guilt, and their blue depths filled more so when the detective looked to him, whispering his deduction in the dark breathlessly.

 

“You love me.”

 

And John flinched as though he had been struck, wings flashing scarlet-pink, dulling then to defeated grey. The angel's mouth turned downwards, and his voice was firm thought small. Like he was bracing himself against a bullet. 

 

“I don't.”

 

“But you _do_.” Sherlock leaned forward slightly, crowding John's space. His eyes were rounded with wonder and a sort of disbelief, as if he couldn't believe anyone would quite feel that way about him. To John, it was painful. The angel longed to wipe that expression away. To turn it just into happiness. Joy. Instead he shifted back on the bed, his resolve hardening.

 

“But I _can't_.”

 

John lifted his chin, shoulders back to soldier-straight, his breath evening out even as he gently pushed Sherlock out of his personal space. It was strange, to see a man normally so open cut himself off. To the detective, it was infuriating. Wrong. He longed to reach out, to wipe such a pained expression from John's features. So he tried. His lips parted, and the words hovered on his own lips, almost there but hesitant. The lie that the angel needed.

 

“I don't love you. It is not my place. I don't even know what love _is._ Not the kind you're thinking of. Not the kind...I don't love you.”

 

But it was feeble, and John could feel it, quivering between them. The discordant note of dishonesty that made his smile if possible sadder.

“I know.”

 

And John reached out to brush the top of Sherlock's closed palm once, moving then to stand to his feet before any more lies were stated. The silver glint of his gun caused Sherlock to squint, even as the angel tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Standing shadowed in the darkness, John's wings filled the room like oceans, like a shield surrounding the bed. He looked every inch dangerous, a warrior as opposed to a healer in that moment. 

 

“There's still a lot to tell you. But I can't. I've already broken so many laws and rules... And we need to go. Sun's almost up. The Werewolves will retreat with it.”

 

“And the angels?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head to the side. “What if they try to stop us? Where are we even going?”

 

In response, John's patted his weapon. His voice was filled with unmoving iron.

 

“To see someone who protected you when I couldn't.”

 

And Sherlock would have agreed right away, if it weren't for the secret he was keeping locked in the basement. The detective bit his lip, worrying at it as cautiously he tried

 

“John... about how I rescued you from... from whatever that man was... well... how do you feel about dogs?”

 

As if in response from beneath the floorboards of their flat, a bone-chilling howl caused both men's skins to shiver over their flesh.

 

 

****

 

With the rising sun, the refugees were starting to become restless. Irene didn't blame them, although she hastened to remind them to be relatively quiet, giving them enough space to roam the manor, provided that they kept their children quiet and didn't go outside. As it was most chose to stay in the living room, quietly accepting the breakfast that Kate brought them, toast for everyone and eggs with a side of hash-browns. Perhaps not the healthiest choice, but the dark-haired dominatrix didn't particularly care much about health at the moment. Instead she looked tensely out the window, watching the hulking grey shadows that had been pacing outside the electric fence surrounding the manor with narrowed eyes. As the sky had gradually grown less and less dark, more wolves had chosen to slink away, cursing the morning's glow with howls that haunted the alleys and made them appear like wraiths floating in fog.

 

So much fog, so thick that it couldn't be completely natural. Irene bit down gently on one manicured, blood-red nail in thought. It could be used to their advantage, that fog. True, nothing could be seen in it...

 

but then again nothing could see them if they chose to venture out into it.

 

And they needed to leave the country, find _Him._

 

Capture Sherlock Holmes. Keep him in her clutches and break him, rule him so that he couldn't do anything without asking for her blessing.

 

And bring him to make a deal with the man that wasn't a man, and more of a snake.

 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle hand on her shoulder, drawing her away from the curtain's edge. Kate's voice was soft as she drew Irene in, voice low and gentle.

 

“Come now, we still have a few hours yet before we can try. Come help me and Damen pack.”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Damen stood at the foot of the stairs to the upper levels. The Nephilim blinked motionlessly, a cat silently awaiting orders. The Woman straightened, rolling her shoulders. She found the strength in her voice that she had been looking for even as she smiled sharply.

 

“You're right. It's time to play our chips, and if we do it right... both humans and angels alike will find themselves at our mercy.” She threw her head back then, and in the crisp white dress she wore, Irene looked every inch a predator poised to kill. Her battle armor, the kind of outfit suited for nothing less but complete and total domination. 

In the living room, the other Nephilim felt their back's straighten, glancing at their leader. 

It was time to take back the city, show everyone the forgotten would be forgotten no more. 

 

It was time for the dawn of the Halflings. 

 


	30. Wolf Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is short! longer updates are on the horizon! this fic is beginning to slowly draw to the major fight and its conclusion :3 Song is Enemies by Shinedown....

 

 

 

 

 

_Listen up there's not a moment to spare,_

_it's quite a drop from the top so how're you feeling down there?_

_It's a cold, cruel, harsh, reality. Cold, here, stuck with your enemies._

_Who do you think you are?_

_Tearing us all apart?_

_Where did you think you could go? 'Cause everyone already knows, it's twenty-to-one, looks like you better run_

_you've got the world on its knees you're taking all that you please_

_you want more (you want more!)_

_but you'll get nothing from me..._

 

_We're enemies._

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Greg Lestrade registered dimly the fact that he was bleeding. Whether or not the copper staining the collar of his shirt was actually his blood, was rather debatable. There was rather a lot of blood, and not just on himself. It seemed to be everywhere, at least from what he could see behind the covering of dark blue wings. Like the night sky they covered them, sprouting from behind the shoulders of the being pinning him to the floor as much for his protection as his insurance.

 

Crow watched as the wolves made a steady retreat, the majority of them limping, bleeding, panting open-mouthed. Beside him, the majority of the Yard angels crouched, either protecting their Chosen's or actively attacking, locked in sparring matched with the few straggling wolves who pushed their limits even as the sun began to turn the blue-black sky pink and grey. The angels were winning, but it was a costly purchase. Crow could feel the stinging welts across his back from massive paws tackling him to the ground, and his limbs quivered with as much adrenaline as uncertainty. He would not yield, that was simply not in his nature, but he knew for a fact that the group here was very lucky they'd lasted until sunrise.

 

Frankly, it was a small miracle, however ironic the term. Finally, the last of the wolves tore themselves free from Sally's angel (who had been choking them to keep them from closing their jaws around her Chosen's ankle) snarling with a blood-soaked muzzle once before turning to flee. The scratch of its nails against the linoleum of the floor made Crow twitch, anxious to give chase, but he couldn't leave Greg. Beneath him his Chosen was trembling, brown eyes blown wide with as much shock as terror, and his clothes were more red and translucent gold than the navy hues they'd sported this morning (angel blood shimmered when it dried, it tended to make someone look like they had been bathed in a glitter bomb). Thankfully, very little of it was Greg's. No one had been bitten either, an even greater feat, something that the angels all visibly relaxed at as they checked their Chosen's over for injury.

 

Crow didn't have much time to do so unfortunately, though inside his innards twisted in discomfort at the idea that Greg had been injured on his watch. Already, his feathers were twitching, flecks of ice-blue creeping through his primaries. His Human's thoughts were already not focused on the present, but rather what could be happening to the people he cared about.

 

Though Greg was obviously distressed, obviously tired, and obviously distrustful of the shadow-man standing over him, he couldn't bring himself to move. The man's limbs felt locked in place, frozen and still. Lethargic even as the wild-looking creature moved off of him finally. His eyes seemed to glow from his tanned frame, and the.... _angel_ was both beautiful and strange as he held out a scarred hand. After a moment, Greg took it dazedly.

He did not know what had happened, only that it most definitely _wasn't_ his division. Yet people were hurt, and his police instincts were already kicking in, and soon Greg was looking about, calling out names, checking to make sure none were hurt. Sally waved from behind another feathered being, her eyes wide and terrified but her jaw untrembling. Detective Inspector Dimmock called out a moment later, claiming to be unharmed.

 

With the immediate terror of being eaten alive by massive, fearsome wolves gone, everyone's eyes came to fall on the figures before them. Silence descended amongst the toppled over cubicles, the shattered windows and broken plaster. It was so quiet that Greg could hear distant howls, off in the night but rapidly fading even as the sun's rays like fingers curling on the back of his neck and hands. Against his will, his eyes dragged themselves towards the creature before him, like they were magnetized. Like he was helpless to stop it. Blinking, he found that the.... _angel_ was standing before him, wings outspread, the feathers... _shifting_ even as the D.I's thoughts organized.

 

His first thought was _Mycroft._

 

His second thought, was that he _knew_ those eyes, staring at him piercingly with golden irises that blinked slowly, a lion's gaze.

 

In those eyes, Greg for a moment thought he could see himself. But not himself as he was _now..._

 

No.... perhaps himself, when he was little. Perhaps himself, standing alone at Addie's funeral in the rain.

 

Perhaps himself, when he quietly looked at Mycroft Holmes, and decided to once again become the man's helper. If only to save a young man that held no love for anything in the world. If only to protect the boy that had looked so much like his brother, back then had looked so fragile.

 

In the end, it always came back to Sherlock.

But that was because in the end, things for Greg always came back to Mycroft.

 

And those eyes knew.

 

And those eyes didn't seem to mind.

 

So when Greg spoke, his voice didn't shake. It was rough, and he could taste blood and salt on the back of his tongue, but it held firm. Because somehow he knew, that the creature before him would do as he asked. That they'd always do what they needed.

 

That they'd always protect that which they loved.

 

He licked his cracked, dry lips.

“Can... can you take me to him?”

 

Crow nodded, a small, sharp jerk of his chin. His voice was deeper than Greg had expected, calmer.

“Is that what you ask of me?”

 

Wordlessly, he nodded. Without preamble, Crow stepped forward then. Not listening to Greg's protests. The angel gathered his Chosen into his arms. The warmth of the Human life flowed through him at their contact, and his eyes closed for a moment in silent joy. Mute ecstasy, because all that he loved and knew was looking at him and _seeing._

 

And perhaps, John Watson wasn't so peculiar after all, the angel mused. For there was great power in that gaze, a world of worth. Thinking to himself, Crow wondered if he'd be able to let go of it, when things finally fell to order, and God took back his throne.

 

For surely, this could only be a blip on the endless and ever-reaching life of an immortal.

 

****

There was a breath before Anthea was moving, heaving the dead wolf off of her and wildly looking around, searching for the source of the gunshot. Her eyes fell to Mycroft, dishevelled and uncharacteristically haggard, staring at her even with the trembling pistol in his hands. It seemed like his fingers wouldn't quite cooperate with him, and he visibly flinched, his palms curling about the handle of the gun as Anthea stepped forward. The angel stopped, voice soft and low as she tried to coax the man she had watched over all her life to trust her.

 

In the quiet of her mind, a tiny voice chanted. Screamed its amazement.

 _He sees me! He_ _**sees** _ _me!_

“Mycroft...”

 

At the sound of her voice, the elder Holmes felt as if lost in a dream, the last dregs of a lullaby echoing in the depths of his mind. Not quite heard and yet not entirely forgotten.

 

****

There was a girl lying curled up on the floor of _**221 C.**_ Specifically a young, slightly scarred and snarling, _naked_ girl. Upon opening the door to the flat she very nearly lunged for John's throat, stopped only by the angel's quick reflexes and stronger form. Sherlock watched as without mercy John drove the girl back, planting a solid foot at the approximate height of her gut as she lunged at him, pushing her back so that they could enter.

 

Gladstone curled like a coiled spring into the far corner of the room, her breath coming hard and sharp as she clutched at the pulsing pain in her leg. The wound bled sluggishly, despite the fact that the Man In The Coat- the one who hovered by the doorway now- had treated it while she had been lost in a sea of pain.

 

Moriarty had crippled her, the bastard leaving her like a broken sentry under the benches of the pool. Her task had been complete after all, to capture the angel. Her pack had been trained specifically out of the other wolves to catch certain people, and now that the Devil had with one careless flick of his hand expected her to die. Except Gladstone had never been one to go down easily, and when the Devil had vanished, when it was only the angel and The Man In The Coat kneeling alone in the pool, she found herself leaning on her haunches, determined that if she was going to die, then she was going to complete her task. One last revenge against the man that treated her like a soldier, only to cast her to the ground to shatter in plastic pieces.

 

Sherlock couldn't tell you how he had felt at that moment, half out of his mind with the fear that John was dead, hopelessly confused and kneeling against the hard tiles. Yet he could tell you how the hair at the back of his neck had stood upwards at the low growl that had emanated from the shadows, how his skin had broken into goosebumps as slowly he had turned, lips clamped into whiteness as he saw the yellow-silver eyes peering at him from the darkness.

 

Yet Gladstone hadn't had the bite that her bark had held, in the end. The pained wolf had limped into the light, looking not so much menacing as fragile as she'd struggled forward, ears flattened against her skull. Her breath had been pained, and the detective had watched the enormous creature's sides, seeing how they heaved and struggled with every effort to continue breathing. Her paws were not all facing forwards, the back left twisted at a painful angle. It made the detective feel a small twinge of pity, though the size of the creature's teeth had made him remain where he was.

 

That was until the wolf, massive and yet so worn, had collapsed before him, shrinking rapidly into the quivering form of a girl. In rough, rasping words, Gladstone had begged, her voice thick with emotion. She knew she wasn't supposed to speak, _knew_ she should wait until her pack came to put her down, finish her- but there was a thrumming in her heart, and so suddenly, the anger in her heart and voice reached a desperate cry as she begged

 

“Please... _please....”_

 

Sherlock had thought he had never heard a sound so desperate.

 

Now though, he found himself facing a girl that appeared more animal than human, her eyes wild, in a frenzy. The beastly snarl that emanated from her curled lips was directed at John. Sherlock wondered not for the last time if he hadn't made a mistake, especially when the shivering girl whispered 

 

"My comrades have spoken of you. Wolf Killer." 

And John, eyes cold as steel, leveled his gun. His voice was made of iron.

"Hurt either of us, and you'll know why that name left  ** _Scheol._ "**

 

 


	31. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "let it burn" by Red :) Sorry this took as long as it did! ^.^ Enjoy! we're headed towards the end :)

 

 

 

_I watched this city burn,_

_these dreams like ashes float away,_

_your voice I never heard. Only. silence._

_Where were you when our hearts were bleeding?_

_Where were you? It all crashed down,_

_never thought that you'd deceive me,_

_where are you now?_

_Can you stand the pain? How long will you hide your face? How long will you be afraid?_

_Are you afraid?_

 

_How long will you let it burn?_

 

 

 

John had met many kinds of creatures in _**Scheol,**_ the likes of which were mostly unpleasant, if not outright dangerous and terrifying. Vampyres, sleepless demons, sand spirits that turned the boiling desert into a maze, hard to escape and harder to survive. Werewolves, well they had roamed the desert in packs.

 

John could remember them, crossing the sand in shadows of darkness. Leonine figures, silvery in the sun-turned black by the mirage of distance. He could remember fighting them, struggling to survive. Now, the wolf before him brought forth the memories of a life without Sherlock, a life in which there had been nothing but sand and desert and thirst.

 

As a result he didn't particularly think he was being rude or disrespectful given the circumstances, the safety of his gun clicking off audibly as he stated “We need to get across London. However we'll need protection.”

 

Gladstone to her credit, resisted the urge to roll her eyes or snarl. “And so you come to me, hoping I'll be able to protect you? If you think anyone has a chance against my Master, my _pack,_ then you have another thing coming.” Her dark lips pulled back, and her grin was savage as it was bitter. “Your kind is a delicacy to us. We've been gorged on the meat and the marrow of angels. I do not even know the taste of mortal flesh any longer...” Her golden eyes flicked then to Sherlock, and they narrowed minutely in hate “Not that I wouldn't object to becoming reacquainted with it.”

 

John was unfazed by the threat, instead keeping the wolf on topic by gesturing to his gun. His voice was cold, straightforward. “I'm not here to play mock-fight with you, I'm here to see if we can't make an agreement. Safe passage through London.”

 

Gladstone's dark brows lowered. A dangerous growl rumbled through her chest threateningly. “In exchange for what?” She asked, wincing at the wounds that littered her skin. She expected blunt force, the threat of death. Still she refused to be cowed by some angel. For though she was a slave, she had little fear of pain or her own demise. She had seen too many of her pack die from that fear, that hesitation. The gun barely registered for her. Instead she wrestled with staying on her feet, two legs less balanced than four even as she half-crouched before them. Her chin lifted in blunt defiance, and her tone was unmoved. “I won't stop you. A bullet will take at least a half day to kill me so close to the full moon as it is, and you don't have time to ensure that I die.”

 

She coughed then, blood tasting like copper on the back of her teeth. Still she refused to let it be known how close she already was to fainting, or worse. It was Sherlock who spoke then, stepping up from behind the massive shield of John's wings his voice was a derisive snort.

“You're bluffing, you can barely stay conscious as it is.” Pale blue eyes swept over the girl's form, and a long hand affected a careless wave, purposefully nonchalant. “If John doesn't heal you, then you'll die anyway in this room.”

 

Gladstone responded with an inhuman snarl, lips pulling back over her teeth like a savage beast. The plumb colour of her gums was darkened with red. “You know _nothing!_ Filthy Human, I should have died back when my master wished it!”

 

“Yet you didn't.” John interrupted, his voice a bark that possessed enough strength in it to quell even the wolf's ire. His mouth was a set line, firm as he kept his weapon trained. His voice was soft, despite the steel in its tone lending it weight. “You begged for Sherlock's help, and he aided you, even when I would have likely have outright refused. My Chosen isn't one for charity, yet he brought you here. Now you pretend that you don't fear death, but like all living things, it's a lie.”

 

The girl's eyes burned hotly, her voice filled with accusation as she retorted “And how would you know about the fear of death? Coddled as you are, you think you know suffering, but you know _nothing._ Nothing at all about being damned for _what you are._ ” The girl's yellow eyes dulled then, and she clutched weakly at her leg. It bled sluggishly, staining her fingers crimson. The colour swam in Gladstone's vision. When she spoke again, she had shrunk in on herself, all but cowering. A kicked dog, grimy and used. A child.

“I only fear what I know for certain, and that is there is no mercy for me if I die. Here I have a chance. However I have no angel, no _protector._ So yes, I _fear_ the certainty of my ruin. My demise. For if I die, I return to my maker, the one who _cursed_ me with this monster. Who stole me, like so many other children away from my parents. I fear that which I know, which is to say that I fear the Devil any day. More than _your_ God. Pathetic.”

 

Her voice rose then, turning into a barely-controlled shout as she exclaimed “What would you know about suffering? Chosen as you are, hand-picked by God when he left his other mistakes to _rot?_ ” Gladstone braced herself then, preparing for physical attack. Righteous anger. For a moment her eyes closed, knees locking in a vain attempt to stay upright should either of the men before her strike. When neither did, she swayed in confusion. Blinking in bewildered fear, she looked at the angel, standing before her. His expression was kind- impossibly so. Especially with the rumours that swam in her head, whispering that the gun in his hands was dangerous, the glint in his eyes even more so.

 

John's voice was filled with a tired kind of understanding. Something else as well, something that bordered on guilty. His gun did not waver, but his teeth were gritted as though he had to bite the words out that he spoke.

“I know.”

 

Gladstone had met many angels, eaten many more, but she had never seen such a look of empathy on one's face before. The expression threw her, enough that for a moment she forgot herself. How could a killer of her kind, someone with a title for slaying her people, look at her and claim to _know_ her pain? Yet a moment later John answered the silent question, elaborating even as his gun lowered, as did his gaze.

“I know I don't understand. I know that for years I've lived in denial, pretending that all I had to do was listen to my Father, and that if I trusted in him everything would be fine. I pretended to have faith, even when I've doubted, even when I've seen....” John grit his teeth then, taking a steadying breath. His blue eyes were uncharacteristically bright, and from where Sherlock stood, he could see the amount of willpower such a confession took. John was going against everything, _everything_ he had even known in that moment, admitting that someone whom he had seen as faultless was fundamentally flawed. It must have been crippling, to see the result of such flaws in the person before them, a child already doomed to a lifetime of battling a monster within herself.

 

It must have been a punishing blow.

 

“I've seen people whose crime was only existing, and for it they were forced to commit atrocities that I would have at first condemned them for.” _Mary. Soo Lin._

 

“I've seen humans, halflings and the like struggle just to survive. To feel something.” _Victor. Raz._

 

John pictured each of the faces of the people that came to mind, blinking back the unexpected emotion lodging itself in his chest. His voice came out shaky by the end of his speech, the angel having to clear his throat before he could continue. The grip on his gun shifted, turned to borderline trembling. To his surprise, Sherlock's long fingers came forward, steadying his hand with its warmth. The detective's eyes were uncharacteristically soft. John's voice was barely a whisper.

“I can't sit back any more. Watching. Never... never changing anything. I think... I don't think any one can any more. Not with Moriarty..... not with London in ruins. He's not going to _stop,_ and my Father.... he won't know when to end it either. He'd sooner watch this city burn, pretending nothing is wrong... until it's too late. They've been fighting for so long... a battle that no one can quite comprehend. If I... _we_ don't do something, there will be all-out war.”

 

The detective's voice rumbled next to John's ear, filled with questions. “Angels against Demons?”

Yet John shook his head. His voice was grim and certain. For the Devil's plan was rapidly clicking together for him, the pieces connecting. Things he hadn't seen before coming together neatly like a puzzle before his widening eyes. _Angel-based drugs.... demons killing Nephilim... smuggling goods in that could kill man. Then this, the destruction, guardians forced to appear, to protect their Chosen's.... Father being forced to show his hand....an attempt to alienate angels from their duties, causing chaos and dissent amongst ranks...being forced between doing their duty and protecting that which they care about...to turn against instinct is to kill an angel..._

 

and then Mary's words, once-forgotten now made clear.

 

_What happens when an angel turns against their base instinct?Their Prime Directive?_

 

John felt a shiver run through him, coursing down his wings. Gladstone watched the twitch of muscle, and if she had been in wolf form, her ears would have flattened against her skull, the smell of fear suddenly sharp and sour in the confines of _**221 C.**_ John's voice was filled with a dreadful kind of realisation.

 

“No. Angels against _mankind._ And all of us against _God._ ”

 

Sherlock twitched, but it wasn't in fear. Rather, it was more his forearm was  _burning._ Strangely enough, his head seemed to pound in time. 

 

 

****

 

The girl screamed _beautifully,_ voice high and pitched to a wail as she burned, tied in place and sweating with fever that came from no natural source. Her blood felt as though it were boiling, and the ruddy flush to her cheeks painted her eyes fevered silver in the dark. She curled in on herself, attempting to get away from the shadowed figure before her, unable to move due to some invisible force. Instead she writhed, begging and pleading wordlessly, tears streaking down her cheeks even as her eyes stayed fixated on the crumpled figure behind the man, a girl with tawny wings, broken and plucked as if to shreds.

 

Kat couldn't tell if Samantha was breathing, all she could see was what looked like blood, except it was _golden_ and shimmering and _her friend had wings but oh God please don't be dead please I need you-_

 

Another wave of heat hit, and she screeches again, arching in vain. Hiccuping sobs wrack her body, and she quivers in place. Like electricity was flowing through her, Kat could feel her heartbeat stutter in her ears. Once, twice. She choked, the burning in her lungs filling her. Consuming.

 

Above her, the shadow laughed. It was a rolling sound, tinged with an Irish lilt. Utterly mad.“Come now, don't give out on me just yet! The party's just beginning! And you're helping us reach an old friend... Your little _guardian_ will be absolutely thrilled to meet them, I'm sure.”

 

Speckled wings twitched, and a harsh, rattling cough sounded at the man's statement. Kat's breathing stopped for a moment in impossible hope, and she struggled to reach Sam, her hands shaking even as she groped blindly in the dim alleyway. Her voice was croaky with relief and terror.

“S-Sam-”

 

A booted foot pressed down on her palm, cutting off all attempts at being reunited and instead replacing it with agony. The young woman yelped, feeling the bones in her knuckles grind under the treads of the boot. Moriarty's voice was as falsely pleasant as it was menacing.

 

“Oh, Death. Where oh where have you been? You look terrible, luv.”

 

Behind him, a shadow flickered to life. Yet it was not a figure dressed in white, no. No woman nor man, but an impossibly tall statue, still as stone, garbed in a cloak that seemed to made of night itself. Impossibly dark. Pupiless eyes, darkest black and blinking, shone in the deserted alley. A voice as raspy and clattering as the inside of a drain spoke, sending shivers along both angel and human's spines.

 

“ **You will pay for your insolence, Jim Moriarty.”**

 

But the Devil's grin merely stretched wider in response to such a threat, cat-like and pointed. It formed impossibly from ear to ear, and the man's face twisted, shifting so that eyes gleamed red, half-formed in skin that was grey like puddy. His own voice was a snarl. 

“Perhaps... But first should you wish to end this madness, this death count... you will listen to me.”

 

Death did not move. They were still, and their face was a blur, constantly shifting between changing faces, many screaming and all terrified. The faces of those they had been forced to collect, too early for their time, too soon. 

 

“ **I make no deals, not even with God.”**

 

Their declaration clattered in the alleyway, unmoveable and untouched. Like bones clinking over flagstone. Lucifer's smirk was knowing. “See, you've said that before. But I don't think you quiiiiiite understand. See, I've come to know, a little secret as of late. Gained upon a pretty shiny piece of merchandise, marked him. He's mine now, in name if not blood alone, and blood will come all too soon if my hunch is correct.” 

 

Smoothing down his Westwood suit, Moriarty extended one hand. Lifting it palm-up, his skin mottled, broke away from itself, forming anew between his fingers. Cupped in his palm a blank spider formed, red back revealing its poisonous nature. The creature clicked, hissing at the cloaked shadow before him. The red on its back was painted into a clear and telling  _**S.H.** _

 

“Sherlock Holmes. One detective, one _key_ to this war, and soon he'll be mine and not even _you_ will be able to keep him from helping me unseat Mr High-and-Mighty himself. I'd say negotiations might be in order, should you like to see the body count end.”

 

Death's pale face shifted then into one mask, a pale man with chalky hair. The voice that came from their lips seemed to fill the room, suck the air from it. It was cold, so cold. Under the suited man's shoe, Kat cowered. She had to be dreaming. _Had to be._ How was Sherlock... _Sherlock_ involved with all of this? She hadn't _spoken_ to him in _years._ Not since she'd worked at getting off the streets. Last she'd heard he'd been in _rehab._

 

The cloaked figure's voice dripped with cold fury. An endless anger that leeched into the very bones of the alley, froze everything in snow.

“ **You know not what you ask of me. Not of the sacrifice it will take.”**

 

For the first time, Jim's smile shrank just slightly. Peppered with annoyance. His voice turned cold and unfeeling. A pointed accusation.

“I think I've sacrificed enough by now to at least have an idea.” Then “Do we have a deal? Take it or leave it, either way I've won.”

 

The cloaked figure said nothing. Yet after a moment, a pale hand lifted, reaching outwards. The spider in Jim's hand leaped, falling into Death's hands, only to be crushed in an impossibly tight grip, disappearing into ash. Their voice was steel grating against stone. A promise more than a threat.

“ **Do not think that the dead are weak, Fallen One. If you think Death is a cruel master, you have yet to see my followers.”**

 

Then, impossibly dark gaze flicking over to Sam and Kat, its lifted one hand. The human woman felt her eyes grow impossibly heavy, sleep tugging her like a gentle hand towards a meadow. The dank in the air was replaced with sweetness. The last thing she felt was cold arms gathering her up like she weighed no more than a bundle of straw, Sam's body nearby. It was warm, so warm, and she gratefully curled towards the feathers sprouting from her friend's back. Her sigh was one of relief.

 

When Kat woke hours later, she felt as if she had been dreaming. That she might have seen something impossible. Yet when she sat up, she saw her friend perfectly healed, crouching over a small kindling fire. Samantha's eyes were grim, but Kat didn't notice. Instead she gaped, looking at the huge expanse of feathers, sweeping outwards from her friend's spine like twin sails.

 

They were beautiful. Gold and brown and white. Yet the edges of the flight feathers were tipped like the beginning of storm clouds in deepest, softest grey.

 

 

 


	32. Free Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is kind of how I come off of hiatus... by writing the smut chapter that signifies the beginning of the close of this story. 
> 
> Thank you so much those of you who have been with this story all the way from its beginning to the end, and I'm back ^.^ 
> 
> Which means updates coming for many of my stories, in all likelihood :) 
> 
> The song is Free Fallin', and my personal favourite version is a cover by Michael Henry and Justin Robinett. The lyrics are by Tom Petty, originally. ^_^

 

 

 

 

_I wanna glide down over Mulholland_

_I wanna write her name in the sky I wanna free fall out into nothin'_

_I'm gonna leave this world for a while_

_Now I'm free, free fallin', fallin'_

_Now I'm free, free fallin', fallin'_

 

 

 

The air was crisp and sour with smoke, and John inhaled it and tasted blood and _**Dark Magic.** _ The flavour of it made him wince, wings shifting tensely as they stretched protectively in front of Sherlock. On his other side, Gladstone tugged at the sleeves of the too-long button-up the Angel had provided her, a low growl rumbling in the back of her throat.

The streets before them lay in ruins amongst the smoke and the dust. Ashes hung heavy on concrete, dead wind blowing mournfully through the ragged alleys even as overhead the sky rumbled with thunder threateningly. Storm clouds, brewing to let loose a rain unlike the city had ever before seen. It added a layer of thick, heavy oppressiveness to the air, despite the fact that there was not a soul in sight, cars open and abandoned, still bodies lying on the pavement and staring unseeingly into the sky.

Gladstone’s nose was tilted almost thoughtfully upwards, her golden eyes alight. When she spoke, it was with a growl of hungry delight.

_“Blood.”_

John didn’t seem to react, although Sherlock felt a shiver of something that was not quite trepidation run through his veins at the obvious glee in the young girl’s face. It was a rather beastly expression, savage and marring otherwise pretty features, and the detective struggled to understand it on a basely human level. He watched as his angel scanned the streets tensely, jaw clenched and gun held firmly in his hands. John couldn’t see any threats, nothing living or otherwise, although he would be the first to admit that out of the three of them his senses were not the greatest. A moment later, Gladstone confirmed his suspicions.

“There are no living beings within at least a three mile radius. Many are hiding in their homes, a few underground in London’s pipes.” Her nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed speculatively. Tilting her head to the side in a distinctly canine gesture, she ran her tongue over her teeth.

“Tubes are still running though. It’s an automatic system, though from the sounds of it, they might just be housing survivors, unable or unwilling to get off and venture outside.”

John shook his head at her suggestion, his wings flaring.

“I can’t fly underground, and I’m more evenly matched against most when there’s more space between us to move. We stay above-ground, head towards the Yard to find Sherlock’s brother.”

It was then Sherlock spoke up, brows lowering in consideration. Reaching into his pocket as if searching for something, his pale, elegant hands revealing to John’s surprise what looked to be a golden ring. Twirling it between two fingers, the detective reached over to Gladstone, gaze serious.

“Can you track a scent? I nicked this off of my brother last time he was over. He was annoying me.” He shrugged in response to John’s disapproving glare. The young werewolf scoffed at the question as though she was mortally offended, rolling her eyes but taking the ring and inhaling deeply. Gladstone’s eyes fluttered closed in concentration, her senses humming as The Wolf pricked its ears forward, lowering its nose to the proverbial ground in hunt. John watched on silently, even as the girl’s lips peeled back into a smirk, and her eyes opened to reveal blazing gold irises lit with as much madness and triumph.

Sherlock found himself gaping as before his eyes, the girl curled herself towards the ground, shifting part of the way so that tendons snapped and popped and reorganized themselves with painful noises, her mouth lengthening into a muzzle. Gone was Gladstone, and in her place was a monster that almost stood upright but not quite, heavily furred and powerful. In a voice that was several octaves lower and yet still somehow feminine, The Wolf turned teasingly towards the detective.

**“The question is not _“can”_ I track a scent, human. The real inquiry is, can _you_ keep up?”**

And with a mighty coiling of her haunches the creature spun, bounding down the street even while dodging debris and human shells now devoid of life.

Then, John was pulling on Sherlock’s sleeve, tugging him onto the angel’s back. The detective barely heard the exclaimed “Come on, then!” Before a great beating of wings burst in his ears, and his stomach abruptly dropping out from under him, left far on the London floor below. The detective’s cry was short and sharp, soon replaced with laughter that was made breathless even as he clutched the warm oatmeal jumper of John’s back, feeling his mind become dizzy with adrenaline and anticipation. Below him, the city Sherlock has always known mapped itself out on full display for him, tattered but still recognizable. Gladstone was a tether to their kite, getting smaller and smaller beneath them.

Sherlock… was _flying._

And by God, John had never heard the man laugh so loudly, the sound so impossibly bright.

Sherlock, his face nestled in the downy softness that was John’s innermost feathers, blinked at the pink blush crawling through John’s primaries.

****

They travelled for the rest of the day and part of the night, until Gladstone’s paws were beginning to ache from running over hot asphalt and John’s wings were all but screaming. Normally, it would not have taken as long as it had, but with so many abandoned cars, upturned houses and buildings and debris, the trio found themselves having to find shelter in a mall that looked as though it had gone through a firefight. Though John could sense life elsewhere in the mall’s complex, the small clothing store in which they chose to make rest in was empty, the lights having been smashed to pieces, upturned clothing racks lying still as stone upon the linoleum floor.

Gladstone, content to make a bed out of the abandoned clothing, promptly fell into a doze soon after they set down ‘camp’. After the moon, she was often utterly exhausted, and John’s Healing was beginning to have its affect on her. Watching The Wolf become a girl again was a transfixing transformation, and Sherlock watched it with rapt fascination even as the girl turned her back, hiding her nakedness with a fuzzy blanket that she had snatched from the children’s section. Snarling, Gladstone glared at the detective in offence, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Got something you’re looking for, you pervert?”

Before Sherlock could respond however, John cut in with a worn laugh. He had been searching the nearby stores for supplies, and now came bearing several cans of food, bottled water, a can-opener from a department store, and more importantly, two inflatable air mattresses. He set them all down with a huff, straightening to shake out his wings and back muscles. Christ, he was sore.

“Sherlock’s not really like that. Take it from someone who has intimate knowledge of his person, he’s never been really one for sex.”

“Opposite gender or otherwise.” Sherlock chipped in, although his jaw had gone tense in a way that John didn’t completely understand. The detective’s gaze flitted away from him and Gladstone, instead fixating on his own hands. When the man spoke, his voice was purposefully dull and falsely unconcerned.

“Tell me, why does Gladstone call you Wolf-Killer?”

Sherlock watched as some of the warmth and weary ease faded from his companion’s eyes, John sighing and running a hand ruefully through his hair. He made a quick glance at the young werewolf, who had apparently already curled inwards and away from them upon one of the mattresses. Her breathing was the even, measured breaths of someone already well on their way towards slumber. Sensing that this would not be a mere, light conversation, Sherlock turned towards John, sitting cross-legged across from him with his hands steepled under his chin. A false mimicry of prayer. The angel, finding the posture ironic, couldn’t help but smile. It was a small, regretful thing.

John’s voice was quiet, and he began by diving straight in as he was prone to do. As an angel, there was really no need for anything like delicacy.

“Remember… when I told you that I had to do things… showed you… that I had to be trusted to be able to look after you before I could become an active part of your life?”

Sherlock, remembering the transfer of memories with a small shudder, could only nod. It had been like he was cracking John’s head open, exposing it for the world to see. Not a pleasurable experience really, but an educational one. Taking a deep breath, the angel explained.

“In the desert… _**Scheol**_ … there are a number of… beings. Ones that were locked away, sealed off from this world with the coming of man… creatures that once roamed the earth and fed from it, broken creatures that were made in God’s first attempts to create humanity, compassion.”

The detective leaned forward, wordlessly portraying that he was listening. John trailed off a moment, his eyes lost before coming back to himself with a small jolt. His left hand trembling minutely, the angel ran nervous fingers along the edge of his mouth, deep pain bending the lines of his body into grief. John continued speaking after a moment, seeming determined to get through his tale. Sherlock could read the signs of PTSD well, feel it in the angel’s posture. It made the most peculiar longing to reach out, to hug his friend, become known in the pit of his stomach. He forced it down without mercy.

“They attack anything that enters that realm. Creatures like that… they crave the holiness of angels, and the life that lies in man. They… eat the power of light, consume it with their own darkness… at least that’s what I believed, then.”

Sherlock regarded him silently, pale blue eyes reading between the lines. His voice was soft, softer than John had ever heard it before. Not pity, but an understanding that pressed a balm to the wounds that had been ripped into John, soothing and gentle.

“You did not know. You didn’t know they had rational thought, or human forms even. you just thought them to be monsters from birth.”

_“It’s what I’ve always been told!”_ John snapped then, shouting before seeming to choke and close his eyes in pain. Behind them, Gladstone twitched, whimpering in her sleep before making a snuffling noise and rolling onto her belly. The angel forced his voice to lower, but the hissing quality of his tone let Sherlock know that if he could, his Guardian would be trembling. John’s wings were reddened by fury.

“I was told from the time I came into this world that my Father was right and everything outside of him was _wrong_ , and now that I’ve had that mask removed I find that even “monsters” appear to have compassion of a kind. Gladstone is awful, she’s half mad and probably wants to murder us, but she’s a _child_ and I see that every time I look at her. Hell I _saw_ it today when we took a break and she chased  _butterflies_ in the park for fun!” John stopped for breath, running his tongue over his teeth before casting an apologetic glance Sherlock’s way. He caught hold of his temper with visible effort, those colourful wings mottling back to their usual greens and blues, though now tinged with Sherlock’s well-masked concern, a soft and glittering teal. Catching his breath, John forced himself to finish, eyes alight with horror at his own actions as he stared at his own hands, imagining red staining them in every crevice, every pore.

“I’m called Wolf-killer because while in _**Scheol,**_ I hunted them to lessen some of my time. During… during the point where I was half mad. I wanted to be free of the fucking desert so badly… so badly… I wanted to be home with you and I’d have done anything for that… I’d have done _anything_ for him and he _knew_ that and I… I-“

And John couldn’t continue, couldn’t say it, but that was alright. Because in that moment, John was utterly and completely shocked, as a pair of skinny, strong arms embraced him, and the angel realized with a dull kind of observance that he was crying. Sobbing rather, like a child who had lost their parent in a blaze. Despite his best attempts, he couldn’t seem to stop either. The tears, warm and glittering with power, streaked down his cheeks, and Sherlock was holding him. For once, a human was comforting their Guardian.

It was wrong.

The more insidious part of the angel’s brain whispered that it was infinitely _right._

But that initial shock found itself overwhelmed when Sherlock’s awkward but meaningful hug was ended by the detective drawing away, a decidedly determined expression on his face. The detective’s voice, rumbling and filled with emotion that John had only seen in the privacy of Sherlock’s own thoughts, sent shivers down to his very toes.

“John Watson, out of all the strange creatures I have met today and seen, all of the demons and all _humans_ , I do believe that you are the least monstrous man that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

Then, muttered even more quietly in the ever-shrinking gap between them

“And… you are not responsible for the mistakes of others, only your own. You love others, even when they do not deserve that affection.” and the end of his sentence, it was phrased more as a question.

In that moment John, completely and totally undone, realized what his Chosen was about to do. What was going on in his mind, what image kept repeating itself, over and over.

John’s greatest sin, and his smallest regret in that moment, was allowing it to happen.

In the shadow of an abandoned, dirty shopping mall, Gladstone kept a slitted eye open on her companions. She watched as their lips met, pressing against one another almost chastely, and watched as that kiss deepened, turned into something more.

And she watched John’s wings, spread about Sherlock and quickly engulfing him as if to hide their actions from the world, burn from pink to neon greens and black, finally erupting into light that was as soft as a lantern, but burning steadily on.

The Wolf thought to herself she’d never before seen anything so beautiful as an angel in love, if only it weren’t completely and inherently forbidden.

****

The air mattress (which was right next to a canine girl with somewhat frightening hearing capabilities) was not the most romantic of places to have sex, and Sherlock frankly had better ideas. Since John’s departure so many years before, he was no longer the blushing virgin that Victor had known all too well, and he had a few ideas that he had frankly been dying to try on a certain army doctor-turned angel.

John couldn’t seem to stop glowing, his entire being, his body and wings and eyes shining with a soft, effusive light that made the detective yearn to reach out, press his tongue to that tan skin and taste. However the angel, seeming to catch himself after they both parted from a soft kiss of whispered words and sexual tension carried out for far too long, was gradually beginning to panic, alarm crossing his features, black mottling out the sunshine and warmth his wings had become.

Sherlock found himself determined to put a stop to it, at whatever the cost.

Surging forward, the detective gave John barely a moment’s breath to think, instead capturing this time his neck, pressing fluttering kisses to the man’s pulse and travelling down, down until the angel was squirming, his human form suddenly alive and so much more present than it ever had been before. When Sherlock bit gently, John had to bite his lip, cutting off a high-pitched keen that would have undoubtedly woken Gladstone. The gentle, sucking pull of Sherlock’s lips against his skin sent a bolt of heat straight through the angel unlike he had ever felt before, fire stirring in his belly and tingling along his seldom-used cock and balls.

It wasn’t that John wasn’t aware on some level what sex was, it was just… well… most of the time when his human vessel got a hard-on, it was easy enough to just… will it away. The idea of actually encouraging such a thing, to allow his brain to swim in endorphins as another person stood him up, guiding him via nips and licks and breathy moans, hadn’t really occurred to him.

Now though, he found himself wanting it.

_Badly._

“Sh-Sher-” The angel tried to protest, tried to come up with some kind of excuse. Any, really. Anything that would make this not happen, even though he so desperately desired nothing more than to chase after the sensations of warmth crawling across his skin. How could a simple, comforting embrace turn into something so inherently sexual? John wasn’t sure, but he was fairly certain it had something to do with the way the detective’s eyes trailed his body, or the way Sherlock pressed John finally into the alcove between two stores, elegant hands riding up his torso to brush along the angel’s nipples. John smothered a whine, scrambling for purchase and nearly moaning aloud when he found that Sherlock was kneeling, allowing him to wrap his hands into those dark, chocolate curls.

The detective was looking up at him, pale blue gaze steady and unflinching. It was an expression that John had seen in the man since he was a child, the look of his Chosen about to take someone or something apart. Except with that gaze now fixated upon him, it was undeniably arousing, to the point where John was steadily letting loose a string of curse words, taking many of his own brother’s and sister’s names in vain as the detective’s nose brushed along his crotch.

Sherlock for his part was all but nuzzling into the patch of warmth before him, his blood tingling with the idea that this wasn’t just John’s first time but his first _everything._ Nerves jangled inside of him, and he bit the inside of his cheek as a sudden wash of nervousness flooded through his chest. He wanted to make this good… He wanted… He wanted John to never regret this.

He wanted John to see how _important_ he was for a change. Not as an angel, not as a _Guardian_... but as  _John._

It was with that thought that the detective pressed his lips forward, tongue peeking out to catch at John’s fly. The angel, already dizzy with lust both unfamiliar and powerful, nearly jerked his hips in surprise as he watched Sherlock undo his trousers with his teeth.

Then, the angel had to close his eyes, the detective’s hands pinning his hips down as Sherlock licked at his cock through his pants, taking the head through the cloth and sucking on it, all the while looking up through the fan of his lashes at John. Legs beginning to tremble, John couldn’t help but speak, but the words that came from his lips were not English. Sherlock slowed but did not stop, his eyes widening a fraction and heat if possible, increasing in his groin.

Moving only to shrug John’s pants down to his ankles, Sherlock blew gently on the twitching cock before him, a smirk and lust clear in his voice.

“I didn’t know you knew Latin.”

Then, without preamble, Sherlock took John into his mouth.

The sound of wings beating once in the air was loud in the dark, and if possible, John glowed brighter. It didn’t last long, Sherlock knew how to suck someone off and the angel already felt he was tumbling head-first into a spiral of bliss, with one clever little roll of his tongue to the underside of John’s cock, Sherlock felt the angel give one final tug, and then John’s cries echoed in the dark, illuminated by the shining glow as his wings faded back to blue and green like a tide drawing near under a sunset.

A perfect Free Fall, spiralling into oblivion. 

 


	33. Free Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^.^ song is "Everybody wants to rule the world" by Lorde.
> 
> Irene begins to show her cards...

 

 

 

_It's my own design_   
_It's my own remorse_   
_Help me to decide_   
_Help me make the most_

_Of freedom and of pleasure_   
_Nothing ever lasts forever_   
_Everybody wants to rule the world_

 

 

 

 

In the end, they were only able to have one night together, before it all went to hell.

 

Sherlock was woken up from a rare (and sated) sleep by unfamiliar hands pressing a rag to his mouth, holding him down as he woke with a muffled shout. Inhalation of air lead to the sickly sweet taste of chloroform pressed against his lips, and he struggled in the instinctual way that an animal would when caught in a deadly trap. Rearing up onto his feet, more hands held him in place even as the detective heard the snarling of Gladstone’s rage. His eyes took in the blurry form of a massive wolf tackling a stranger to the ground, muffled screams cutting off with a gurgle as the beast’s muzzle came away dripping red. John’s cry however diverted Sherlock’s attention, the angel’s form being pinned face-first to the ground. A masked stranger had John’s back pinned to the ground by black boots, gloved hands gripping the angel’s wings, pulling.

 

Sherlock felt red wash his vision, a protective shout tearing from his lips even as dizziness filled him. He fought desperately, even as Gladstone was pinned to the ground by a silver-lined net, and even as John stopped moving, frozen with fear as everyone slowly realized the knife pressed to Sherlock’s throat.

 

The cool blade, previously unnoticed, pricked a sharp line of threatening red against the detective’s jugular. Sherlock, before struggling now froze, his breath leaving him in a contained hiss as he allowed the spinning of the room to take him over. He slumped slightly, unfamiliar hands holding him in an iron grip. A female voice, deep and melodious growled out demands.

“No one move or we kill him.”

 

Sherlock, ever one to push the envelope, found himself rolling his eyes. His voice was low and drawling.

“Likely not, as you’ve obviously come for us for a reason. I am of no use to you dead.”

 

It was the stinging hiss of John’s feathers being plucked that made the detective freeze in horror, something ugly and visceral rising in him at the sight. John for his part remained impassive, face a wall of blank indifference, but the set of his jaw and the way his teeth were snagged in his bottom lip made the detective cringe.

 

He could… he could feel the pain, a phantom ache in his body.

It hurt.

 

Numbly, Sherlock realised that he was shouting, although the words didn’t quite make sense to him. A jumble of deductions, threats and something bordering dangerously close to pleading. The longer it went on, the tighter John’s jaw clenched, as if to halt any words of his own from spilling forth, adding to Sherlock’s desperation.

 

He was interrupted by a cool female voice, sounding sonorous and melodic. The group currently holding them down turned as one to the sound of her voice, like moths to a flame. A woman stepped out from behind an upturned rack of clothing, her blood red heels clicking on the floor. Through Sherlock’s dizziness, he could sense the height of her, as well as her beauty. Skin that was cream white contrasted against blood red lips and hair a deep brown, and pale blue eyes glittered like twin sapphires. They were filled with deep amusement.

 

“Now, now Mr Holmes, No need to grovel.” Sherlock, wary to the fact that as of yesterday almost everyone he had encountered was less than human, stilled. From under dishevelled curls, his blue-green eyes watched as the woman stepped forward, shoes crunching on broken glass until she came to rest by the detective’s angel. John’s eyes were narrowed, a hissing snarl coming from him that was filled with a kind of venom that Sherlock did not comprehend. Although, he knew the meaning (At least in theory) of the word that John spat at the woman like a curse, filled with contempt.

 

_“Nephilim.”_

 

The woman paused at the word, mouth stretching into a Chesire-like grin. She turned her head, hair elegantly curled into a low bun. Sherlock was beginning to black out, but he could make out the colour of her nails. Long, also, blood red. She looked at John as if he were an especially scintillating lamb lined up for the chopping block.

 

The detective felt his knees buckle even as his eyes rolled up into his head, and John watched in dismay as Sherlock collapsed to the ground. Or at least he would have, if the masked stranger hadn’t held his Chosen up like a limp puppet. Behind him, Gladstone snarled weakly from under the silver-lined net. She had shrunk to human form, the pain of her wounds too great to bear.

 

Alone, facing what John could sense were just under a dozen Nephilim, the angel found himself the target of the strange woman, so obviously the head of said operation.

 

Irene Adler’s smile was shark-like as she stared down at the angel glaring up at her in brutal defiance, his eyes deep blue and blazing with mistrust. Yet he couldn’t hide the golden nimbus that had surrounded him, unseen by Sherlock, but known to anyone with even a drop of immortal blood in their veins. The Woman’s laugh was delighted as she gazed upon it, the heavenly fire something beautiful, forbidden. Her voice was smooth as silk.

 

“ _Someone’s_ been naughty…”

 

“Who are you?” John asked, steady. A soldier. Despite his fear for Sherlock and despite his own power, safely tucked away, he was reluctant to fight. Mostly due to the fact that a masked stranger still held a knife to his Chosen’s throat. He could not ask help from his Father either, not any more.

For the first time, John felt the actual weight of his complete solitude, his only ally a werewolf who was currently incapacitated and possibly a few other angels.

He felt something unpleasant churn in his stomach, a sickly dread. If the Nephilim had sided with Moriarty, he would truthfully not blame them. After all, he himself had admitted last night to Sherlock that his Father had been unfair to many in the claiming of his throne. It occurred to John that they all might be slaughtered then and there, or worse, brought to The Devil himself as gifts. The angel wasn’t stupid, Moriarty wanted something in the process of his rule.  If that something happened to be Sherlock, then John at the moment practically speaking had absolutely no defence against him. The Woman, as if sensing his vulnerability, only smiled wider.

 

“Fear not, Oh Child of Mr High and Mighty Himself, the good news is, we have no love of either side of this war.”

 

Her voice dropped then, and she knelt before John. The angel, gritting his teeth in disgust, saw only Victor’s mocking gaze in the tilt of The Woman’s shoulders, in the deadness of her eyes. The playful edge to her voice melted to nothing.

“No, John. We have use for you and Sherlock Holmes. Use all our own.”

 

When she rose, the last thing John saw before a bag was brought over his face was her heels, clicking away in retreat.

 

****

 

Sarah hadn’t been able to fend off the wolves when they had come for her. In the end, she’d been forced to watch as her own Chosen, wide-eyed and screaming, had been ripped apart, her throat gouged out, her blood dripping hotly onto London’s streets like it was nothing more than summer rain.

 

That had been hard. Harder than anything Sarah thought she’d ever experience. The pain….

The pain had been unbearable.

Indescribable.

 

What had been harder, was when Death did not come.

 

All of the angel’s existence, she had been told.

Death would come.

Death would guide the way, hold the hand of her and her Chosen and guide them to where they were to go.

 

Except no white spectre came, no woman in a flowing dress or man in a white suit. Hell, not even a cheesy, costumed reaper with a scythe.

 

No one came, and Sarah did not know where her Chosen was, because she could no longer feel her connection.

 

What she could feel however, was the slow disintegration of her wings.

 

And Sarah, wide-eyed in the shadow of an alley and filled with horror, felt a blackness fill her unlike any other.

For losing a Chosen, being driven mad with grief…

 

She looked up, and saw that she, and many other angels, were changing.

 

Changing into undead.

Changing… _thirsting…_

 

Thirsting in the absence of their Chosens.

 

****

 

“This is madness” Raphael spoke from the circle of the archangels bluntly, his broad arms crossed over his chest, eyes quietly blazing from behind the fringe of his hair. About him the other archangels shifted, feathers quivering with unease. They stood wraiths amongst the clouds of black smoke that hovered over London like an omen of death.

 

Orifiel’s dark curls bobbed with her nod, mouth a thin line of worry as she gazed beneath them, past the sweep of the torpedo, glass spires broken and burning. The city was silent, cold like it had never been before. The sight was chilling, and it served as a reminder of what was to come, a terrifying premonition of what the world’s fate.

 

In the centre, a violet-eyed man stood, his hands tightened into white-knuckled fists at his side. His voice was tense, but with it came the crackling of thunder on the horizon, flickering white-hot and illuminating the still guardians that stood like sentries.

“He’s taken Death. Twenty four hours to concede to his whims or he’s implied he shall be doing much more than just holding them hostage. I can see some of the outcomes… but the future is blurring, changing too quickly to see. I can’t predict…” Soft voice, but his words brought no such comfort. Castiel, blue eyes flickering like stormclouds, rumbled his distaste.

 

“That is no solution, Father. If this reaches America there will be mass war, humans turning in on themselves, let alone angels and demons.”

 

“Should we just give in then to Moriarty’s demands?” Michael murmured, a dangerous arch to his brows. Raphael scoffed at the mere idea, one hand rubbing his temple as if he were trying to massage away a pressure headache.

 

“He’s playing a game. He knows I won’t give him what he wants. That I… that I can’t. So long as…”

 

Trailing off, those lavender eyes shut as if pained, and a shudder ran through the man, jaw tightening minutely. When they opened again, od’s eyes were dark.

“I give Moriarty that kind of power and i also fully untap mine, and that is asking for a war that will destroy worlds.” His voice had a tone of promise, and with it chills ran up Orifiel’s spine, tingling deep within her feathers. She had never seen her Father so serious, completely and utterly unsmiling. Despite herself, she found a tremulous question hovering in the back of her mind. She couldn’t bring herself to utter it aloud.

 

_But is it worth it, **could** it be worth it?_

Raziel, finally choosing to speak, seemed to answer her question regardless.

“Perhaps war is what we need, now.”

 

It was a statement that seemed to hang stagnant in the air.

 

****

 

“Would you like to hear a story, Mr Holmes?”

 

Sherlock felt as if he were floating, swimming in something thick and heavy. Veritable molasses. It weighed down his body like lead, thrumming through his veins, his heart and his blood sluggishly.

He couldn’t feel John.

Somehow, the thought made him vaguely ill.

 

Why couldn’t he _feel_ John?

 

Unfamiliar hands, stroking along his brow. They were cold like ice, tracing along the ridge of his scalp and brushing along his curls. If Sherlock could, he would have shuddered at the contrast between the burning of his skin and the chill of the stranger’s nails.

 

_“Once upon a time, there was a lonely creature, all alone in a great and never-ending darkness. An infant, left long ago by some strange means, made of the energy of the universe.”_

 

The voice, it was low and melodious. Female. Not John. It chafed in Sherlock’s mind, something screaming at him to wake up, to rise from the inky blackness.

Except, he had no idea which way was up.

 

_“They were so alone, in such a great and vast emptiness, and they had no idea what a friend was, what it could be. So, they made one, made a project to entertain them. Keep them interested. A puzzle to solve, to entertain them. Others to keep them company.”_

Waking, slowly, slowly waking. It was painful, the nerves in the detective’s limbs waking with tingling agony crawling across his arms and toes. He frowned in concentration.

 

_“They created a world, sun and moon and stars, a seemingly endless galaxy. It was beautiful, thousands of planets glittering like glistening christmas baubles. Yet it was still so empty, and so they decided to make something. Or rather, someone.”_

 

His hands. He could feel his hands. Experimentally, he twitched them. With the movement, the voice chuckled sweetly.

 

_“So he made so many people, mr Holmes; creatures of so many races and names and ages. He didn’t succeed for all of them, creating things, ugly half-breeds that he looked at and declared abominations. For you see, he thought he could rule them, keep them all under his thumb just because he created them.”_

 

Rising, even as the story took on an edge, the woman’s voice glittering with something sharp and deadly. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.

 

_“He realised his mistake too soon when his most treasured creation, the angels, turned against him. Threatened war. He couldn’t stand the idea of being usurped. So the lonely being did the only thing they could think to do.”_

 

Bleary images, smeared dabs of ivory whites and curling dark hair. Eyes, bluer even than his own. They looked down at him with a peculiar expression.

 

_“They took the free will of the angels, Sherlock Holmes, but they couldn’t destroy it. No, no one can destroy a creation’s free will. So instead, they tucked it away, let it lie hidden in a soul of one of their lesser creations. To rest dormant, so that the lonely being would never be left bereft, not without his first, beautiful creations. Yet in order to do so, he could never regain his own ability to create new things. And so he sacrificed his one great power, in order to forever keep his angels by his side. To this day, they hate the reminder that their angels might leave them, and so any that dare to love another more than their creator, may feel the wrath of the world upon them. That is, so long as their free will remains hidden within the soul of man.”_

 

As Sherlock woke, he found himself reclining on an ivory sofa. His head pounding, the detective blearily looked down at the end towards his feet, where a beautiful woman sat cat-like at his side.

 

She was as pale as new snow, her dress even paler, and those luminescent eyes appeared to flash with mischief and a keen intelligence. A blood-red mouth parted in a coy grin.

 

“You’re awake, Mr Holmes.”

 

Sherlock realised, it was her voice he had been hearing all along.

Also, he still couldn’t feel John. The thought sent something horrible and crawling through his skin.

 

****

 

John inhaled deeply, mentalling steeling himself to try again. His wing-tips quivered with effort, and it was with a tightening set of his shoulders that he charged again, attempting to force open the door currently sealing he and Gladstone in the earthen cellar they had been flung into. The teenage wolf watched on unimpressed even as the angel connected with the door with a mighty clang, wings aflare with rage and teeth gritted. She had personally given up an hour ago, having noted the fact that the hinges of said door were solid concrete.

 

It didn’t help either that they appeared to have Demon charms upon the lock, likely traded in an undergound market. John all but snarled at his imprisonment, tearing away from the door the next moment in a burst of vexed frustration, whirling away to pace uneasily the length of the cell.

 

He couldn’t _sense_ Sherlock.

He couldn’t sense his Chosen. Not since their kidnappers had filled Sherlock with some damn drug. The angel’s feather-tips quivered with anxiety, the knowledge that something could be happening to his… his partner without his knowing. John wasn’t used to the vast emptiness of having his mind his own, not used to the yawning silence that echoed when he tried to reach out, tried to find the familiar thoughts of the darkly-curled detective. The resounding feeling of abandonment was terrifying.

 

“It won’t budge, there’s no use.” The werewolf stated as much flatly, golden eyes flat with indifference. She lay half- supported against an old barrel, gaze frank and unwavering in the dark. John wasn’t soothed by her words instead, muttering something insulting under his breath, wishing that his gun might be of use. Their captors hadn’t even bothered attempting to disarm him, knowing he could will his weapon into existence at will, but they had locked him into a room that meant it was of little use. He could keep guard, plan an escape via shooting his captors next time they arrived, but the angel had the sinking suspicion that said plan would be ruined by the Nephilim using Sherlock as a hostage.

 

The thought made John want to boil with rage, his lip savagely being bitten down upon in fury. So bloody close to safety, and now Sherlock could be being questioned, tortured or worse. Breathing sharply through his nose, the angel refused to follow that line of thought. It threatened to overwhelm his thinking, and John noticed with some alarm that his wings flashed a cautionary and furious red. They still stung from being tugged, plucked and abused. It was a deep ache, like a particularly nasty bruising all along his spine. The only thing that kept him from shaking apart completely, were the whispered words Sherlock spoke to them before they were forcibly separated and his human was drugged even more than he already had been.

_They want me alive._

 

John swore to himself in that moment that if the detective were wrong, he'd bring his Chosen back from the dead himself, if only so he might kill him again. 

 

Emotions, feelings, attachment- It was familiar and yet now, now it seemed utterly debilitating.

 

Gladstone, utterly still and yet holding a certain note of glee in her tone, sniffed the air.

“You smell of it. _Love._ ”

The unspoken _pathetic_ that dripped in her voice made John wish the walls were made of stone, if only so he could feel something when he slammed his fists against them.

 


	34. Irene's Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay new chapter ^_^
> 
> Song is "Things We Lost In The Fire" By Bastille :)

 

  
_These are the things, the things we lost_   
_These are the things we lost in the fire fire fire_   
  
_Flames – they licked the walls_   
_Tenderly they turned to dust all that I adore_

 

 

The woman was a coiled snake seated pristinely at Sherlock’s feet, cat-like eyes filled with an amused secrecy. With the detective’s awakening, a red grin lilted across her features, blue eyes narrowing with amusement at Sherlock’s obvious disorientation. To his credit, the detective was busily trying to reassemble his mind, quickly becoming aware of the pristine white couch he was lying prone upon, as well as the ache that was travelling up along his skull to his spine. It sat with him like a hammer driving at his temples, and he winced, letting out a groan that made his captor tut in mock-sympathy.

“Best not to move, Mr Holmes. I’ve used this drug on loads of my friends but, well, my friends tend to be of a stronger make than humans. Mortals are so fragile, after all.”

“John.” Sherlock said by way of reply, wincing at his own slowness. It felt as if he was swimming through molasses, drowning in sand. In response the woman before him blinked, red nails smoothing down the tops of her thighs as she leaned forward.

“Currently being kept occupied. I wanted to talk with you, and figured it would best be done without the prying ears of angels.”

 

Sherlock struggled to sit up, ignoring the flare of pain that echoed through him with the motion. The feeling of inertia left him as he took in the room in which he was seated, noting the white walls, the mirror hanging over the mantel offering his reflection. There was a clean feeling to the area, as if a single smudge of dirt would not dare make itself known, especially not on the woman currently sitting before him, with perfectly coifed brown curls and a look that made her seem as if she could hold the secrets of the world. Beyond the root fear for John that the detective felt come to him with startling reliability, there was a curiosity, a wondering at what the woman before him could possibly want- or better yet, what she even was. For the detective was beginning to get better at picking up on the clues that meant that the person before him wasn’t of his world, and this woman was ethereal, sharp, and most definitely not mortal.

“And if I don’t much like talking?”

“Well then, I’m sure your angel will do some talking for us. _After_ we bang up those precious wings they’re all so fond of.” She smiled again, but her grin was far from friendly. More like a lioness baring her teeth. “They say a human feels it, when their angel is in pain. That it’s like someone is tearing apart their soul. Personally, I’ve always _wondered_ just how true the rumour could be.”

Sherlock didn’t respond but for a tightening of his jaw, the minute movement latched upon like a prey being cornered between crosshairs.

“Whom is it that I am speaking to, then? Presuming that I wish to speak at all, of course.”

“You do. Irene Adler.” The smile shrank then, and the woman reached to hold out her hand as if to shake in greeting. Sherlock stared at it pointedly, an eyebrow arching in disdain until sighing, Irene moved it away. She looked at him with a measured gaze, as if he were a prize horse being put to the test. “Mr Holmes, you don’t know it, but you’ve become a rather important chess piece in a game that’s been going on for quite some time. To be more specific, you could very well be the key to winning the war that is coming to a head. You are a preemptive insurance that my people will have their names known in the battle ahead. Protection from bigger fish, if you will.”

 

Sherlock ignored the itch that crawled along his arm with the woman’s words, the spider tattoo feeling as if it were writhing inside of his skin. Most of him cared very little about what Irene Adler was saying, save for the fact that it was the reason he had been captured in the first place. He found himself drumming his long fingers against the seat before him, scanning his opponent for clues. So far, there was very little to go by, other than the fact that it was obvious he was being used as leverage in a larger scheme. The thought did not sit well with the detective, who was only too aware that the people John had trusted up until very recently were betraying him, the creatures the angel had seen as being an enemy perhaps not so black-and-white. He was unsure whether or not he could trust this Adler woman, and what was more he wasn’t even completely certain of what it was she was after.

“I don’t see myself as really that valuable, when compared to some of the names that John has told me about. Surely, I’m not as important as, say, an actual angel. Then again they do seem to be of a particularly strong nature, and something tells me that John was holding back for my sake when we were captured. Whatever you are, you’re not confident in your abilities, at least not on your own. You require larger numbers to take on your adversaries.”

“You’re quick to observe. The tabloids were right about that much. Yet you can’t seem to make the connection, that you’ve dealt with my kind before. Should I give you a hint? It seems only fair, since you’re new to all of this.” She leaned forward, breathing her clue into the air like it was the trailing smoke of a cigarette. It was a single word, and danced on her tongue mockingly.

_“Love.”_

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he folded his hands before his lips as he considered the word. Sentiment. Love. Aside from John, only one name came to mind. The thought of it sent nausea rippling through the detective, and he thought of the blue-green feather he had kept for so long, of the nightmares and sleepless evenings in which he’d lain awake and wondered to himself what he might have done differently.

“Victor.” The detective murmured, and Irene nodded slowly in affirmation, sitting up so that the length of her body was evident. She was tall for a woman, and Sherlock’s eyes unwillingly picked up on the similarities to his past lover- subtle but there. 

_Unnatural stillness, elegance that requires little effort. Sharp mind._

 

“Victor was a halfling even by our standards, but he still held our blood. Tell me Mr Holmes, what do you know about _Nephilim?”_

The detective’s glasz eyes narrowed minutely as his mind analyzed and coded the word, and his low voice rumbled in reply.

“According to biblical mythology, they are the unholy offspring of angels and mortals.”

“ _Unholy_ , being the key word.” Irene supplemented, smirking. She stood then, walking on sky-high heels towards the mirror above the mantel. Her reflection peered at Sherlock intently, as if she were searching for some kind of riddle, written within the detective’s flesh. “Most parents when their children are born, love the baby they hold in their arms. It’s an instinctive reaction, brought on by both maternal feelings as well as hormones and expectations.” She seemed to pause, and her blue eyes flicked to some place far away. Irene’s voice was deadly soft. “My mother tried to smother me, when I was born. She birthed me in a filthy, abandoned tube tunnel, where Moriarty kept those of my kind, whom he collected.” Sherlock watched as those red nails dug under the mantle beneath the mirror, flicking some unseen switch. The mirror moved, a mechanical sound whirring from its frame. With its movement, a silver safe was revealed. The woman turned to the detective, smile having never shrunk. “She thought it’d be better for me, had I never lived through that night. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it, in the end. Sentiment got the best of her, I suppose you could say.”

“Why would Moriarty be interested in Nephilim? Are your… kind loyal to him? Are you ruled by him?” Her harsh laugh brought the detective to silence, and Irene looked at him. Her expression was filled with complete disgust.

“ _Loyal?_ What could would it do to be loyal to a creature that bears no affection for anything but that which he has lost? No, Mr Holmes, we are not loyal to Moriarty. In fact, quite the opposite. He has after all spent the better part of the last century or so using us, not that your little angel will know that story. _“Daddy- dearest”_ will have glossed over his decision to ignore the cast-away’s suffering.” She said the last bit flatly, fingers flying over the keys of her safe with a robotic tone. It blipped in confirmation of her passcode, opening, and her fingers delved inside to reveal a vial that the detective squinted to see clearly.

 

It was small between her fingers, made of glass, and was stoppered with a cork. She held it with the care one would bestow upon an egg, and she held it up to the detective with an arched brow. Her voice was mocking. “I know that you’ll talk with me Mr Holmes, because you’re a detective, and I’m part of a mystery that you’ve been skirting around for quite some time. It began with your “Blind Banker” case, and now I ask you- can you solve it, given the final piece of the puzzle? Think carefully now, and I might be inclined to give information in exchange.” Sherlock didn’t trust the woman’s words in the slightest, he had no doubt that she’d lie to him as easily as if she were handing out flowers. Yet his brain was already beginning to pick out the exits, coming back online long enough to notice the fire alarm in the hallway, as well as the solid guard standing in said hall. A distraction was what he needed, and there was nothing quite so diverting as a monologuing villain. The clues stuck out carefully to him, imaginary words painted in the air in crisp white text.

 

“In your hand is a vial of what appears to be a red substance, and though there is no way for me to ascertain what it is chemically the fact that you’ve put it behind a protective safe indicates that it is of deep importance to you. You implied that Moriarty kept Nephilim while showing said safe- so I would assume that whatever your abilities are your kind hold some kind of value to him. Perhaps you are able to create said substance that you hold- not in large quantities as it is clear that your safe is not overflowing with vials, but enough that Moriarty thought it prudent to keep your kind as slaves. As a child, I can assume that you grew up under said conditions. It would certainly explain why your hypervigilance demands that you keep me in your line of sight at all times, as well as your rather ‘mysterious’ vendetta against everything to do with this oncoming war.” Flicking his hands together in a mockery of folded prayer, Sherlock’s pale eyes narrowed in consideration. “You mentioned your mother- but you did so in past tense. Dead, then. Or gone at the very least. You escaped but were forced to leave her behind. There- thank you for confirming it for me- your flinch was controlled but still noticeable. An old hurt, but a deep one nonetheless.”

“Mm, my Kate was right. Brainy is the new sexy.” Irene said dryly, turning the vial in her hands with a contemplative air. “In mythos, it’s said angel feathers can grant its holder a wish of their desire. Can you imagine, Sherlock Holmes, what a price tag that could bring? Wishes in a bottle- given to the highest bidder. And Nephilim don’t keep their wings when born- most of us shed them by the time we’re in our teens.”

“The drug ring.” Sherlock said then, breathing the words out in realisation. “I knew I didn’t recognise the compounds of the drug- but it was because it’s not a mortal drug. It’s angel-made, taken from your kind.”

 

“We’re easier to take it from than the real thing.” Irene responded softly, her voice dripping with venom. “Angels are powerful, difficult to control and at times, fragile due to their connective nature with mankind. Nephilim are the bottom of the barrel, but get a pure halfling and their blood has regenerative qualities, their wings wish-granting abilities. Even their hair improves moods when made into jewellery. But they pay for it, with genetic deficiencies. Most don’t live long, many have personality disorders, mood disorders. We’re a violent race, Mr Holmes. Born from blood- we often die in blood.” The detective leaned back, eyebrows drawn in consideration. His voice rumbled cautiously.

“Victor… he had angel blood, then.”

 

Irene nodded, and she slowly came back to him with the vial in her hands, twisting it slowly, around and around. She didn’t answer his question directly, instead posing one of her own. As she spoke, her lashes fluttered as she looked up at him, piercing irises narrowed in calculation.

“What would you wish for, if you could have anything in the world, Sherlock? If I _may_ call you Sherlock, that is?”

“You may not. And I’ve never been one to pine for things. I deal with cold facts. Logic. Nothing so sentimental as wishing.” He stated dismissively. Her smile was mocking.

“Oh. But we _both_ know that’s not quite true. Your biggest weak-spot happens to be in my cellar, and so I come once again to the point behind this meeting.” Holding up the bottle, red-tinged liquid shimmering in the light, Irene’s voice was steady.

“I am willing to offer you a vial of my own wings- the last one truthfully, in liquid form. Like a magic cordial, you can drink it and it will grant you a wish- any wish at all. In exchange, all I ask for is that you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. That you consider very seriously my people, when the proper time comes.”

 

Sherlock regarded the vial for a moment, long fingers tapping out an unwritten melody against his knee- restlessness made physical in its manifestation.

“Consider you in what decision? For what?”

“Redemption.” Irene stated simply, blinking in the abnormally still way she had. “A lady doesn’t show her cards, but I have found myself at the end of my rope, frankly. All of the people who have helped me in this operation are fugitives, rescued by myself and my partner, Kate. My house is a safe place, a haven for those who have found themselves with no place to go. But with the wolf attack on London, it stands at risk of being compromised. There is no way to smuggle nearly one hundred escaped slaves out of London, especially now. I’ve been trying to make a deal with Moriarty, but he is uninterested in my… offers. Yet he is interested in _you._ And so it has come to my mind that you could be a valuable... asset to have on my side."

Her elegant hand reached out then, gripping Sherlock’s wrist with iron certainty. Forcing his hand open, Irene placed the vial in the detective’s fingers, curling safe into the palm of his hand. Her voice for the first time was no longer the cool, collected tone that it had kept throughout the forced conversation. She looked up through the fan of her lashes at the detective, and for the first time, Sherlock thought he could see a flicker of something other than planning and counterplanning in her expression.

“I cannot use the drug for my own devices. It’s of my own genetic makeup, and we are unable to gather any more, the fugitives that come to me have been stripped of their wings as children. I do not trust many of them to bestow such a drug, as so many have selfish ideals at heart. It’s rare, and I’m offering it to you. Think about it: What do you wish for, Sherlock Holmes? Because I’m willing to bet, that your John hasn’t told you yet the consequence for him, if he’s caught entangled up in an affair with a human.”

The detective’s face remained unreadable, but Sherlock’s hands never stopped in their impatient movements. His expression remained impassive, even as said fingers curled and uncurled against the smooth glass of the vial. A children’s fairytale came to him, floating like an echo long-forgotten in the back of his mind.

_Eat me, Drink me. One will make you shrink._

 

“I want to see John.” He said aloud, finally meeting the woman’s stare. His voice was a rumble of authority. “I wish to speak to him, and if I’ve found you’ve lied about anything you have discussed, I will not trust in you or your plan. I have no care for semantics, and your case though emotive, does not move me. _If_ I agree to your terms, there will be conditions, but I expect that you knew that. I also would like to know the reason behind Moriarty’s fascination with me.” Irene nodded crisply, already rising once more to guide the detective to his feet. Her dark hair glinted darkly under the halo of light above her. She looked angelic, standing before him. Her smile was tired.

“Fair. Just know that once you make a decision, I do not take kindly to people who change their minds.”

In response, Sherlock tucked the vial into the breast-pocket of his shirt.

 

****

John all but lunged for Sherlock when the door opened, the detective standing on the other side. The detective had expected the angel to be distressed- but what he hadn’t expected was to be spun around, quickly pinned to the floor in a defensive position, John standing over him like a vengeful demon with wings flared and lips drawn back in an animalistic snarl. The colour of his wings were a violent mess- red and black shot through with streaks of gunmetal grey. John was so terrifying in the way he crouched before the entrance that Sherlock’s brain didn’t even absorb Gladstone’s presence, until the werewolf knelt beside him, touching his arm. Her voice was tense.

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

She heaved a quiet sigh of relief.

“ _Good,_ because if you were, we wouldn’t be able to stop him in all likelihood. Unless you want your companion here to completely lose his shit and attack someone, you might want John to be made aware that you’re unscathed.” She said the last part with a wry twisting of lips, but her dark eyes were worried as she looked to the gargoyle perched at the entrance to their cell. Her body was tense, like that of a dog that had been locked up with a lion. John hadn’t even turned or spoken, too lost in his rage to work past the froth of his anger. The detective had a sudden flash of memory to his childhood, of being curled up on the floor of a dirty toilet and trembling, the burn of razors still tingling in his mouth. He hadn’t known then- but his new memories gave insight- mostly to how John had been back then, half-wild and menacing and _scared._

The detective’s hands were reaching for him before he was fully aware of what he was doing, wrapping about the angel in an embrace that was perhaps more restraining than loving. Sherlock’s voice was low, tense with the knowledge that though his angel didn’t draw away from him, nor did John relax. It was as if he were preparing himself to fight until his last dying breath- and even as Sherlock leaned forward to speak into his partner’s ear, the detective got the sinking feeling that his angel was perhaps too far away from reality to hear him.

“ _John._ John it’s me. I’m fine, I promise. It’s _okay.”_ Irene watched the scene before her with a small moue of apology on her features, seemingly unafraid of the snarling angel before her. Her voice was callously disinterested.

“Oh, I should have mentioned- The drug I gave you cut mental ties with your angel temporarily. It tends to make John’s kind… a bit uneasy.” Sherlock scowled, even as he held John in check as the cell door closed in front of them- locked in for the night as prisoners but kept like prizes. The creak of the metallic door shuddered even as the angel made an abortive lunge, nearly succeeding in throwing Sherlock off of him. John’s voice was ragged as he hissed a vow with what felt like the vehemence of a fast-acting poison.

_“If you’ve hurt him I swear I’ll kill you.”_

 

From behind the door, The Woman’s voice lilted sweetly. “Many have tried, dear. I invite you to give it your best shot.”

 

****

The night was spent with John eventually calming down enough to realise that Sherlock was in the cell with him. The angel with the revelation didn’t waste much time- ending his somewhat mindless attack on the door to instead press himself as close to his Chosen as possible, as if he could melt into Sherlock’s skin and become one with him. The detective to his credit allowed it, sensing rather than seeing the wordless distress that John was trying to keep a lid upon, the strain of it causing considerable tension along the angel’s spine. Gladstone watched as the two men settled themselves eventually towards the back of the cell, John curled up against Sherlock in an embrace that did not look particularly comfortable. Still, it allowed the angel to touch as much as the detective as possible, and for John that’s what was needed in that moment- touch.

They remained together like that for a long time- Sherlock’s back to the wall and John’s wings shielding them both from prying eyes. It took the better part of an hour for the angel’s wings to stop quivering into multiple, violent patterns of colour, and they did so only when slowly John felt the trickle of the detective’s subconscious leak into his mind- tortuous silence soothed by Sherlock’s ever-running mental dialogue. It was a lulling kind of noise, and the angel’s eyes drooped to half-mast with its return, wings finally fading to their regular, blue-green hue. John’s voice came later, low and drowsy even as he clutched at Sherlock’s shirt- it sounded rough, as if the man had been swallowing nails.

“Thought I lost you to them again.”

The detective shifted, carefully and minutely cupping the back of John’s neck with one spidery hand. His touch was like a balm-  and John shuddered into it greedily, something primal and wild in the way he butted up against the man’s hand like a cat. Sherlock had never seen John so completely wild, and his inquiry came in a half bemused, clinical sort of way.

“Is it painful? What she did? I just felt… off-kilter, truthfully.”

“So much pain.” John murmured quietly, the sound small in the silence of the cell. Gladstone, having settled herself down after a restless pacing about the four foot square perimeter of the right wall of the cell, spoke.

“Picture having half of your heart ripped out, Holmes. I used to watch my Master… Moriarty do it to angels, to get information. It’s used in darker circles as a form of torture.”

The thought of something so abhorred made Sherlock’s blood run cold against his will, and he felt John’s hold upon him tighten minutely. The angel’s voice sounded exhausted.

“Thought I lost you. Nearly lost you before.” Though John didn’t elaborate, the detective picked up the pieces through the memories that were filtering through to him when he thought back. Shards of memories with Victor, painful and suddenly more so filled him, and he blinked them away like the fluttering pages of old magazines. Sherlock’s voice was low, quiet.

“He was one of them, then. Figures. It all… makes sense looking back on it. His… coldness. Inability to... move past a certain point.”

“Not a full one...Had an angel… Mary….” John whispered quietly, ducking his head against Sherlock’s chest. It had been so long since he uttered the name, it felt dry on his lips. Used. Like old blood. It was coppery and wrong. In response, he felt Sherlock’s arms tighten about him, his pointed chin resting in the crook of his neck. It was a vulnerable sort of posture, and made the angel feel compelled to shield the man farther. Yet Sherlock’s voice was iron as he made his deductions, cold and remote and distant. Always distant, when Victor was spoken of.

 

“The woman. In the Thames with him. She was _human_ , I’m sure of it even now… Yet…It made no _sense._ Victor hadn't known her, I knew as much.”

“Greg’s angel, Crow told me… He said she… Mary… She knew it was ending. That it had to end. So she went against her nature… Controlled her Chosen. It’s a sin, Sherlock, one that not many dare to do. Want to do.” The detective however, wasn’t satisfied with this answer. An angry hiss escaped his teeth, and he drew away to glare with burning eyes that were pale and sharp.

 _“Nature?_ Who can dictate another’s _Nature?_ Who is given the _right?”_ Gladstone snorted under her breath then, leaning against the opposite wall. Her eyes glittered gold, wicked and bright in the dark. The mark of a predator.

“You haven’t been paying attention if you don’t know the answer, Holmes. Angels are some of the most powerful creatures ever created, but they’re bound by _countless_ laws that are submerged in old magic. John’s sin alone would normally result in his banishment from Heaven. He’d become a _**Demon**_ if his Father wasn’t currently up to his elbows in shit to fix. From your expression, I bet you didn’t even know.”

Through her monologue, Sherlock had stiffened, fixing John with a glare that was one part furious and two parts betrayed. The angel in contrast had slumped forward, curling as if to hide in Sherlock’s chest. John didn’t want to know the price for his betrayal, the thought of it still causing something sour to rise in the back of his throat. The werewolf carried on ruthlessly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Bottom line- turning against their Nature is a severe crime. An angel is built to protect, my own pa told me as much. Something like that… She’d be stripped of her wings instantly, I’m guessing. But it’s not certain, since crimes of that nature are not common. Some say the angel just turns into a Demon, but there are… other theories.”

 

“They become human.” John muttered then, straightening to look at Sherlock with desperation in his blue eyes. “I wanted to tell you, but I’m not sure how it will be taken when I’m finally judged. I don’t know. I might… I might become a _**Demon**_ or I might become _Mortal_ , and I didn’t want you to… to panic-”

“Because if you become Mortal then I become a vegetable and lose my guardian.” Sherlock’s deduction came like a slap, and John flinched away from it, trembling. The angel’s voice was firm despite its deep regret.

“I _won’t_ let that happen.”

 

Gladstone laughed, the sound loud and echoic in the cell. She ran a hand through her dark curls, and her voice was disbelieving.

“An angel lying? Now that’s something…You couldn't even stop yourself from running to daddy when he asked it of you not two months ago.” John’s upper lip curled, and he made as if to turn, wings a dangerous and thunderous blue. However Sherlock’s grip was like iron suddenly, and the detective’s voice was a taut wire. It was crackling with realization. 

“That’s what… Irene… That’s her _angle_.”

“What? The crazy Nephilim that’s captured us?” John’s confusion made way to suspicion, and his voice was dubious in tone. “Sherlock, what did she say-”

But the detective was already shaking his head, an oddly determined glint in his irises. His bow-like lips were pursed in annoyance, and he swore under his breath. The profanity was shocking, and did little to ease John’s nerves. The angel’s wings pulsed an uneasy violet, approaching the grey of a storm.

_“Sherlock-”_

“John.” The detective was looking at him then, the fan of his lashes curtaining his glass-like eyes. There was uncertainty, in that stare, and an intensity that made John squirm. It felt like the sort of stare one used when they were uncertain whether or not they would see the other person again. It filled the angel with dread. Gripping harder Sherlock’s shirt, John shook his head. A wordless refusal of said farewell.

“I don’t know what you’re planning. But no. It needs to stop.”

"You said so yourself, John. You won't control me, and you _can't."_ His voice was too perfunctory. Too cold. The angel felt his anger and fear sky-rocket. 

"We're a team. Don't do  _this._ Don't... Don't just close off and play the _machine!"_

Wrong words, but neither of them seemed to notice. Sherlock's gaze was faraway and vague. 

The detective didn’t respond despite the angel’s subsequent pleas and threats, lost in his Mind-Palace.  His silence brought shadows into the cell, ones that did not dispel until the early hours of morning, in which the cell door opened once more to Irene Adler, dressed in an elegant frock that was as red as a sunset behind clouds. She looked elegant, beautiful and deadly, and John in that moment hated her, hated how Sherlock eventually pulled away from him, rising to his feet. Hated how he couldn’t seem to catch the detective’s eye at all. Most of all, he hated how Irene saw something in Sherlock’s expression, something that made her face light up in approval. Her voice was like silk, speaking out across the room.

“You’ve come to a decision, then.”

“No.” John said. At the same time, the detective overtook him with a firm and resounding _“Yes.”_

With it, there was a burning in the angel's chest, and an ashen taste of terror curling in the back of his throat. 

Quietly, Gladstone hissed at the painful awkwardness that ensued. The wolf inside of her rumbled, looking at Sherlock and thinking with disgust that some pairings were just too  _Alpha_ to function well. Like two sparks, striking one another and creating fires for everyone around them to clean up. 

 

 


	35. When Dead Men Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two more chapters, then this is done I think ^_^ maybe an epilogue. 
> 
> Thank you so much to the people who have stuck with this story until the end. Major editing still needs to be done on the earlier chapters, and I have some tweaking to do, but I'll admit to have had a lot of fun writing this :) 
> 
> Thank you so much!!
> 
> The song is Dilaudid by The Mountain Goats.

 

 

_The reception's gotten fuzzy_

_The delicate balance has shifted_

_Put on your gloves and your black pumps_

_Let's pretend the fog has lifted Now you see me_

_Now you don't_

_Now you say you love me Pretty soon you won't_

_I_ _f we live to see the other side of this_

_I will remember your kiss_

_So do it with your mouth open_

_And take your foot off of the brake, for Christ's sake!_

 

 

 

Breakfast amongst Irene’s refugees was an experience that made both Sherlock and John stiff and uncomfortable with unease. It was surprisingly not even due to the number of strange eyes peering at them from the long bench and wooden tables set up in the dining room. Instead, the tension came from between the Chosen and the angel, a thick unpleasantness that lingered tautly between them like a bad fog. Worse, there was no current way to go about solving said tension, as John and Sherlock were both currently at odds with one another about the decisions recently made:

Mainly, the one that lead them to sitting at said table to begin with.

 

“We sadly have a limit on variety of food supplies, so there isn’t much. But my Kate knows how to make bread, and we stocked up on flour and other ingredients in bulk before the wolf attack.” Irene spoke from the head of the table, her hands folded in front of her professionally. She smiled at Sherlock coyly, blue eyes sparking. “Of course now that we’re on the same side, I welcome you to eat your fill. You’ll need your strength for the days ahead. In the mean time, let’s introduce you to the people.” A pale hand extended over the many refugees, all glancing up at Sherlock and John with varying expressions of mistrust and suspicion.

 

In total, there were about five families and seven singles, all looking both tired and stressed. A few were injured, one girl sporting a twisted ankle, a small child looking at Sherlock through a black eye. They seemed especially frightened of John, many glancing at him from underneath their eyelashes even as they ate their fill of bread and some cheese. Irene pointed first at an asian family, seated by opposite side. They had one child, a little girl with dark pigtails and large, serious eyes. “The Cho family. Mei and Cody came to us from Moriarty’s slave barracks, having escaped. Mei was heavily pregnant at the time, and nearly hemorrhaged on her way here. Still, now they have little Mei, and she likes colouring and is currently considering nicking that piece of ham you’re not eating, Sherlock.” Sure enough, the small girl snatched her hand away that had been inching towards the detective’s plate, shooting a nervous look up at Sherlock as if she half-expected to be struck. Her mother shot her a dark glance before holding her away from the table, as if thinking along the same lines.

 

John was the one surprisingly who cleared his throat and put on a tentative smile, nodding tightly towards them. Though he felt a wave of revulsion at the blank, emotionless side-glances he was being given from around the room, a part of him admitted that it was due to a lifetime of conditioning and bad experiences with Nephilim- a part of him that he was currently trying incredibly hard to second-guess and overcome. Still, Irene Adler was not exactly the most trustworthy of companions, and though the small child seemed to be alright, her parents made it absolutely clear that they held no kind regard for Angels.

 

As breakfast finished, many of the refugees took to cleaning up the dishes, helping one another without complaint. Many chattered away in languages lond-dead, the gift handed down from their parents, angelic or otherwise. They all kept a wide berth from Sherlock and John, but as the hours passed the children at least seemed more at ease, a few cautiously glancing at John’s massive wings in something akin to awe when he thought he wasn’t looking. Once, a boy with large eyes and copper hair made a reach as if to touch, but his elder brother grabbed him, tugging him away.

 

Sherlock knew what Irene was doing, and aloud as John dressed in new clothes in the corner of their cell (given by their new generous benefactor) he voiced his opinions. “She’s attempting to garner sympathy to her cause. Sentiment, all of it. The whole lot of them may very well be in on it and using it to their advantage.” John’s voice was quiet as he replied, stiff.

“Yes, well they _are_ masters at manipulation.”

“You resent them, because of what Victor did.” Sherlock retorted softly, and somehow saying the reason out loud caused a dam to break in John’s chilly fury, the angel straightening over the pile of his old clothes so that he could point viciously towards Gladstone. The werewolf had watched the majority of their spats in silence, but now her gold eyes narrowed threateningly even as John exploded in rage.

“What do you _want_ me to say? ‘Yes, Sherlock, I resent their kind for nearly ruining your life and causing you pain that I couldn’t stop’? Because we both know that I do. I couldn’t stop it, and it made you…” John trailed off them, eyes closing as he unwillingly remembered what the detective had been like when the angel had first returned to him. Cold, so cold and angry. It had taken ages for Sherlock to thaw, even with John pulling out every stop he could think of. The fury at the thought of just how scarred Sherlock had been from Victor’s influence never ceased to douse John in flame.

 

A beat of silence, then Sherlock’s spoke. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, low. John resisted violently the way it made him want to wrap the man in his arms, hide him away in the span of his wings. Foolish thoughts, human emotions… How much longer until his wings faded from such ridiculousness? Would he become mortal… _could he?_

Or would he end up like so many others, sinking into the demonic, losing his feathers in exchange for wings black as midnight and eyes darker than coal?

“Irene is looking for sanctuary regardless of how this… war turns out. She may be cruel, John, but she is also a tactician. She’s trying to cover all the bases, but I don’t think she’s out to deliberately cause us harm… I’d usually be able to deduce it if she was…We're chess pieces to her. A game.”

 

“It doesn’t mean she won’t throw you under the bus first chance she gets.” Gladstone spoke then, her arms crossed over her chest tightly. Her expression was pinched, nervous. Being around the scent of the creatures she not so long ago hunted made her tetchy, restless. Her eyes were huge, golden and piercing in their unblinking stare.

“The _Wolf-Killer_ might be wrong, they _might_ have emotions, but either way these Nephilim are wild-cards. They have a grudge to settle, one that means relatively speaking, we are all disposable. Except for you, Sherlock. You have the one thing they want. With John slowly losing his… _Angelic_ tendencies, they might attempt a severing. That is, if they think you two are at odds with one another.”

 

The detective’s spine went rigid, jaw clenching even as John curled further in on himself. Sherlock’s voice was steely.

“They won’t separate me from John. Not if they want my help.”

Gladstone’s laughed derisively, throwing her head back in the strange mimicry of a howl.

“Human, _look_ at your Bond. It’s either too well-attached, or not at all. John can sense it, even if you can’t. You two are hanging by a thread, and one well-placed foot will snap it. It’s like everyone in this house believes- A human and an Angel can’t love. Not when one is their Chosen.”

“Enough.” John’s voice was heavy with finality, even as he hands came to slam against the wall of their cell. Perhaps it was just in time, for Sherlock’s eyes had been glittering dangerously, and his lips were parted as if he were preparing to unleash a storm. The Angel straightened, blue eyes dark as if wrecking balls were destroying something precious within him. He looked… shattered, and it made something twist in Sherlock’s chest unpleasantly. John’s voice sounded hollow, and his wings were a troubled, murky colour, an ocean with turbulent waves. “We’ll get through this. We don’t need to make deals with… With Irene. We’ll get out of this. We’ll find Lestrade and Mycroft and we’ll…”

Yet his voice trailed off softly, because then what? There was nothing one being could do, not against Moriarty at this point. The weight of that realisation was only confirmed by a high, childlike screaming from upstairs, followed by a crashing noise. A moment later, Kate’s voice rang out, high in terror.

_“The dead…They’re...!”_

 

It seemed as if it was in the blink of an eye that Sherlock, John and Gladstone were upstairs, yet in that breath it seemed like the longest flight of steps. At the top of the steps, John found Kate standing at the boarded-up windows, peering through the wooden cracks with one hand of horror covering her mouth. Beside her, Mei’s eyes were filled with tears as she wordlessly cried on the floor, curled up in terror. Despite himself, John found his arms going for the child, lifting her up and curling his wings about her protectively. He all but nudged Kate aside, as unresponsive as she was. Peering through the slats of wood, John felt coldness surge through him at what he saw.

 

In the streets, shuffling along, pale and lifeless, were Angels. Except… they were no longer the beings of light and energy that John called his kin. Instead their bodies were ashen, many bare, and they moved with the slow, mindless hive-mind of something undead in the streets. The Angel’s memories of Scheol came back to him, vivid and visceral. He clutched Mei closer, even as he shushed her cries with forced calm. Behind him, Gladstone’s voice spoke out.

“It was the next part of Moriarty’s plan. Get death out of the picture, kill humans. What are left? the remains. Angels, turned into vampyres searching for life. A perfect army, one he’s going to control with the promise of an endless feast on angels. His footsoldiers.” Her voice measured, but for once, John thought he heard a quiver of fear. For no one, mortal or Nephilim or even werewolf alike, could hope to face drones of creatures drawn towards livid blood like beacons to a flame. Worse, there was a rumbling in the sky, a lightning-edged illumination that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end. Then, in a moment’s breath, a great, brassy note pierced the air. The Angel quaked with its note, humming through his blood. It spoke to him, murmuring only to words:

_**TO WAR!** _

 

 _“No…”_ He whispered, even as at the same time he saw the lightning in the iron-grey clouds peak, shooting towards the pavement below. Tearing through the sky, hundreds of comets fell, shooting stars hailing down towards London in tumbling masses. Except they were not bolts of lightning at all, but figures landing in haloes of light that singed the pavement and created craters under their feet. Angels, hundreds of them. Thousands. All were bearing weapons of different kinds and make, their eyes aflame, burning gold. Inside himself, deep in his chest, John felt the pull the command. He didn't know what made him feel more sick, the fact that his kin were fighting, or the fact that he could  _resist._ Had he really fallen so low, so quickly?

_**Fight for me. Fight for your creator.** _

The Angels outside all wore expressions that were frighteningly blank. Unthinking. Unaware. Yet here he was, affected but not consumed. John dug his fingers into the grain of the slats, his teeth grit in a mixture of horror and dread. He could not make himself look away, not even when his people raised their weapons, aimed at the snarling wraiths that were once one of their own.

 

John was so busy staring out the window, that he didn’t see Irene’s pale form, creeping towards Sherlock. The detective had hung back, listening to John and Gladstone’s grim deductions of outside events intently. His arm _itched_ , and he scratched at it. Hard. Sherlock resisted the urge to flinch when Irene’s manicured nails brushed his shoulder, and her quiet voice whispered in his ear.

“Time to decide, Sherlock Holmes. You can use my room, if you need to. If you want to save them… save him… I wouldn’t dawdle.”

Her smile was blood-red, and all the detective could seem to hear was Moriarty’s words, whispering in his ears:

__

_**Blood works better than anything else, if you need to give me a call. Give my regards to John.** _

 

****

Greg Lestrade swore to himself even as they dove for the upper building of the office that he was never, ever flying again. Never. The swooping sensation of his stomach leaving him several floors below never quite stopped for the duration of the journey, and Crow had a tendency to weave as he flew, catching channels of air to coast upon that made the D.I wish he was dead instead of just violently ill.

 

The Angel would have found the entire thing somewhat ridiculously amusing, if it didn’t affect him as well. The echo of nausea rang in Crow’s stomach, and he struggled to stay above it, gritting his teeth against the human temptation to vomit.

 _“Please_ don’t drop me.” Greg asked for what felt like the upteenth time, and if they hadn’t been connected, the Angel might have considered letting go, if only to prove a point.

 

Still, together they made it towards Mycroft’s presence, which Crow could sense by the ache along his wings. He could feel it in the pulsing of the hand-print on his feathers. The building was a smoking husk, abandoned and attacked. Several windows were already shattered, and Greg swallowed against the sudden fear in his chest that seized. What if they were too late? What if Mycroft…

He never got to finish that thought however, because Crow took a sudden dip that made his lungs feel as if they were in his mouth, and with the screaming D.I clutching about his neck the Angel made a rough landing to the top floor, wings stretching wide to balance his descent.

 

Mycroft to his credit hadn’t moved much since the morning. After the shock of seeing Anthea, knowing her, the government official hadn’t been able to find in himself much will to move. The top floor was relatively secure, having gone into lockdown with the break-in of the wolves, and there were rations in his desk for such situations. What was more, Mycroft wasn’t sure he could have been convinced to move even if he had to, his entire world tilted in such a way that it felt as if he were standing upon his head. It was not everyday that the British government was caught flat-footed. He found himself instead curled at the foot of his desk, a woman he both at once knew and didn’t holding him as if he were a child. More to his surprise, it didn’t bother him. To Mycroft… it felt…

It felt _right._

 

 _Am I mad?_ He wondered once to himself, and he startled when Anthea answered aloud. “No. Promise, you’re not.” The vow strangely soothed him, and he drifted for awhile, occasionally only disturbed by thoughts of his brother, his life. Yet a part of him could sense that they were not just _his_ thoughts, not any longer. No, they were her thoughts too, melted and twisted into one tight braid.

They were one, their thoughts shared, and with the connection, memories flowed into Mycroft. Events that had been edited from his mind, now smoothed over from Anthea’s point of view.

 

That feeling only shifted slightly with Greg’s arrival, a shattering of glass and the beating of wings, followed by a rather unmanly shrieking.

 

 


	36. The Devil's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, one more chapter after this, then epilogue :)
> 
> Song is "I am the fire" by Halestorm.

 

 _I've been sacrificed_  
_My Hearts been cauterized_  
_Hanging on to hope_  
_Shackled by the ghost_  
_Of what I once believed_  
_That I could never be_  
_What’s right in front of me?_  
  
_I am the fire_  
_I am burning brighter_  
_Roaring like a storm_  
_And I am the one I've been waiting for_  
_Screaming like a siren_  
_Alive and burning brighter_  
_I am the fire_

 

 

Irene’s room was made up of crisp white sheets and polished floorboards, a stark contrast to the iron-grey clouds that hung over London like a blanket of death. It seemed like irony to Sherlock, even as his fists curled and uncurled loosely, energy crackling just under his skin and making him itch. It was if there was a toxin in the air, seeping under his clothes, and though he knew he didn’t have much time until John noticed his absence it made the detective want to slow down, stop and breathe in the staleness of the atmosphere, despair.

“It’s John’s emotions, affecting you.” Irene’s voice, right by his side broke the detective from his stupor, causing him to turn from his blank inspection of the woman’s duvet. Sherlock had deduced she had slept in the bed two nights ago, that she hadn’t bothered lately. It was too well-made, pristine down to the very corners. Even the pillows were fluffed. It felt as if the room were holding its breath, aware of what its mistress was about to encourage. Knowing of what Sherlock was about to do.

 

Irene’s voice was crisp and professional as she turned to him, the white of her dress only making her blue eyes bluer as she looked at Sherlock searchingly.Her hands were warm as she reached for the pale length of his wrist, turning it slowly.

“There’s a knife, in the top drawer. It’s sharp, and you only need to make a small cut directly over the Seal.” Red nails glittered as her fingers inched up Sherlock’s sleeve, pulling it away to reveal the red and black spider tattoo. It stood out, seemingly alive and twitching, and Sherlock thought if he blinked he could see it quivering with expectation. The sight of it made him feel cold.

“You will take care of John.” He managed to say, his voice strangely steady even as he looked back at her, fingers curling and uncurling. “You will take care of him until I get back, and make sure he doesn’t do something… unwise.”

“You have my word. Any harm comes to John and our deal is off, as discussed.” The Woman answered solemnly, one dark brow raised as if in challenge. “I _know.”_

 

Irene bit her lip then, looking down at the spider tattoo. Her eyes darkened fractionally, like lanterns dimming. “This… This moment will change history, and I haven’t even told you why. But you need to know, Sherlock Holmes… What you’re doing, it’s the right thing. It’s going to save so many people, many will look to your name-”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” The detective interrupted, though not unkindly. His pale gaze swept over Irene, oddly gentle. “It never has, what people think of me. In the end, I never wanted to be popular. It doesn’t matter.” The unspoken was left between them: All except for one person. I only want one.

“You’re saving my John Watson.” Irene murmured, squeezing Sherlock’s arm. Her voice was heavy with honesty “I’ll repay the favour. Now, _go.”_

She gripped his hands in her own one last time, nodding to him as if in comfort. Irene’s last words were heavy with severity. “Remember my story. The one about free will. It’s important, _more_ than you know.”

Then she was leaving, the click of her heels only interrupted by the quiet latch of the bedroom door. With it, Sherlock was enveloped in silence, deep and profound and seeping into his veins.

 

Only then did the detective allow himself to blink, to breathe deeply through his nose so that the air heaved through his chest. Alive. Then his feet were pulling him unconsciously forward, towards the sleek black drawer at the foot of the bed. Sherlock’s hands didn’t shake, even as he unmasked the sleek handle of the knife, holding it up to examine in the light. Its steel edge gleamed like a sliver of moonlight, the length of his forearm. It only took a moment of hesitation before the detective slowly turned it towards his own skin, making a clean and effective slice directly across the spider’s back. Sherlock had a moment of clarity, and then his blood welled black from within the cut, leaking onto the floor in quantities too copious to be natural. His blood pooled onto the ground, filled the room in moments, rose steadily to his knees, his chin, his lips. The detective, rooted to the spot barely had enough time to take in a ragged breath of air before he was encased in blackness. Sherlock’s last thought was to the tearing feeling in his chest, the Bond between he and John unravelling to a single thread even as the detective’s thoughts screamed for his companion, his friend.

 

****

Grey. It painted the walls, dripping into Sherlock’s vision like a slow, smooth passage of time. Plicks of it dotted his field of sight, slowly colouring things in piece, by piece, by piece. To Sherlock, it was as if he was inside a glass of water, someone stirring watercolour inks and staining his thoughts, his mind. It seeped into him, revealing steel-grey outlines of buildings, a skyline off in the horizon. It took him a moment, but inhaling deeply, the flavour of the air was like an old friend to Sherlock, now mottled with smoke and the pang of chaos.

 

Standing atop the roof of St. Bart’s hospital was both disorienting and disconcerting, given the fact that Sherlock against his better instincts had half suspected to be transported to some evil lair. Instead the cool wind greeted him, ruffling his curls and plain shirt (given to him by Irene) and leaving him with gooseflesh breaking out along his neck and arms. It was quiet, eerily so for london, but in the distance there was the vague sound of battle, screams and cries promising a harbinger of war.

 

Sherlock only had a moment to listen intently, wondering just how long it would take for the battle to reach him. The slow, drawling voice that spoke to him was both familiar and chilling, and it came from behind.

“I was _hoping_ you’d call. Glad to see you didn’t disappoint me, Sherlock. I do so… hate disappointment.”

Moriarty was grinning, a slow and cat-like expression that twisted his features into something unfriendly and vaguely menacing. On the surface he looked human enough, Westwood suit immaculate and polished, a phone in his hand that he was flipping through with a casual and lazy air. It was only when he peered up at Sherlock through his lashes that the detective saw. Jim’s once-dark black eyes were a deep and heated crimson, flickering like firelight as he slid his gaze towards the detective.

 

Beside him, two figures sat, one limp and free like a ragdoll left to rot, the other kneeling, looking as though they were being held down by some unknown force. The first appeared human, though whether or not it was someone living or a corpse the detective for a moment couldn’t be sure of, not until he saw the weak, repetitive rise and fall of their chest. It was a man, tall and probably at one point, strong, with hair that was a dark blonde, almost brown. They lay propped against the doorway to the stairs, as if set there for a rest that they never quite woke up from. Their skin was ice-pale, and a single scar ran jagged over the man’s upturned face. His neck, arms and legs were littered with silvery marks, rings of teeth imprints that had healed long ago. Some were still fresh, bleeding sluggishly from the man’s wrists, his neck. The sight made a shiver of unease flow through the detective. The other figure was much less lax, peering up at Sherlock from a face that to his interest seemed to shift before his very eyes. Their hair was ashen, almost white, and before Sherlock the creature’s face transformed, flowing from a dozen different races, genders, nationalities and ages. Each one of the faces was screwed up as if in pain, lips parted in a silent scream.

 

“Don’t mind Death, there. They’re always _so_ dramatic, having a temper tantrum in front of an honoured guest.” Moriarty continued to grin, waltzing forward in a predatory way. Sherlock resisted the urge to take a step back, his voice cool and low even as his hands curled into fists by his side.

“You need me. I understand that much, but what I want to know, is why. I want to make a deal, and to do that I need to know my value.”

A pale hand was held up, the devil making a tutting sound like he was chastising a child.

“Now, now. None of that. All will be explained in due time. What I want to do first, Sherlock is introduce you to my dearest friend. Let’s talk, hm?”

 

It was like watching a puppet being pulled up by its strings. The corpse-like figure rose to their feet as if in a trance, shuffling over to Moriarty’s side. Upon getting a better view of his face, Sherlock saw that the man’s eyes were flat, unburdened by emotion. Dead and glassy, they stared outwards, two pits from which there was no light emitting to the outside world. Jim didn’t seem to notice, his smile only growing as he flung out an arm to wrap around the figure’s shoulders. The man limply moved with the touch, leaning into the embrace by force alone.

“This, my dear Sherlock, is my one and only ‘Bastian. Sebastian Moran.” Jim’s brogue enunciated Sebastian’s name, turning it into _Suh-bas-ti-aan._ The man didn’t seem to register his own name, instead peering at Sherlock with only a vague kind of interest, as if the detective were a rock or a particularly fascinating piece of gum stuck under his own shoe. Jim patted the man on his chest as if his silence was amusing, his own chuckle rippling out from his chest.

“Hasn’t talked much the past oh, _few thousand years_. Poor thing, he’s been _so_ unwell since Daddy hurt him, hurt us **_both._** _”_ That grip tightened minutely, grin vanishing every so slightly as something unpleasant glittered in Moriarty’s eyes. His voice was still conversational. “How well do you know your mythology, Sherlock? Do you know that I used to be like your precious John? That I used to be Father’s _favourite?”_

 

Sherlock’s voice was like ice.

“Until you betrayed him, until you questioned the social hierarchy.”

 _“I asked questions!”_ Jim burst then, his calm demeanour cracking to reveal a rage that was boiling and seething beneath. He flung out an arm, gesticulating wildly as he snarled “I questioned one simple thing, asked for one thing and what am I told?! That I’m a traitor for my actions!”

“You proclaimed hatred for humanity.” Sherlock began, but Jim interrupted him with a high, wild laugh. The devil shook with his own amusement, a cruel glint in his gaze as he interrupted.

“No, Sherlock. That’s merely what you _think_ happened. True events, oh the truth is so much harder to find underneath all the fairytales. You want to know _why_ I was betrayed? Why I’m doing all. Of. **This?** _Doofus!_ Open your eyes! I _don’t_ hate humanity!”

That spider-like hand shot out then, twisting into Sebastian’s shirt and drawing him closer. Unresponsive, Moran followed obediently. Sherlock was suddenly nose-to-nose with the living corpse, an involuntary shout coming from his lips even as the man’s weight was flung at him. Moriarty’s voice raged over the sound like thunder.

 

_“I WAS THROWN AWAY LIKE SOME BROKEN TOY BECAUSE I **LOVED,** SHERLOCK HOLMES! I WAS TREATED AN OUTCAST BECAUSE I CREATED THE ONE. THING. AN. IMMORTAL. CAN. **NEVER.** EVER. HAVE.”_

Sherlock couldn’t help but cradle the blank figure, though touching Moran’s skin was like feeling wax underneath his fingers. The detective looked at Moriarty, seeing an animal for the first time, shuddering between humanoid form and something else. Whatever it was, it had teeth and eyes that glowed hungrily, so many that they looked in different directions, glowing with madness. “Free Will.”

 

The words were spoken softly, a croon of something treasured, and the devil seemed to deflate slightly just then. Jim wasn’t looking at Sherlock any longer, instead peering at Moran in his arms. His expression was a twisted mimicry of regret.

“I created Free Will for the first time, and when God found out, he tried to take it from me. From his creations. I couldn’t keep it… _couldn’t_ … It's so hard to keep to yourself...He’d only find me… so I _hid_ it from him, hid it in his most precious creation of all. I hid it in my Chosen. Sebastian Moran, the only creature I have ever… ever loved.”

Sherlock, holding Moran’s form so close to him, felt the vaguest of tremors. Looking, he saw Sebastian’s eyes, still so blank. Yet tears streamed from his face, dripping down onto the cement below. Jim’s voice carried on, ending his story so quietly that the detective strained to listen.

“It was a mistake. They took him from me for it. _Took_ him and tried to carve the Will out of him. But it didn’t work. Sebastian wouldn’t let it work. I watched him die giving the Will away, hiding it in a new human, gifting all of humanity pieces of it so it couldn’t be taken. The main piece, he flung so far. So very far… it didn’t resurface for millennia. Until… I heard a story about an angel that was God’s new favourite, and a boy that everyone around him seemed touched… cursed…angels making their own decisions around him, his own falling in love with him. Sure, angels _do_ occasionally slip up, but that’s due usually to _lust._ No...”

 

Sherlock felt dazed, something pounding in his skull. Moran kept crying, even as the detective set the poor man down on the ground. Moriarty’s voice was like poison, whispering into his ear. “ _Love,_ is a much more vicious motivator, and everything John has done has been out of that. Love. So I became curious, naturally. What is an angel doing, falling in love? The answer was right before me- _You.”_

Jim stepped over Moran then, invading Sherlock’s personal space. His voice dripped heavy with glee. “I’ve got you, and now that I do, I’m going to fix it. Fix all of this, this mess that God’s created. Enough chess, we’re tired of being pawns, his pieces. Using you, Sherlock, means I can give Free Will to everyone. Every angel, every creature. Can you imagine it? With no one left that’s forced follow him, Daddy dearest will find himself in… a prickly situation. So much violence, so much darkness, all of which feeds me and my children. We will be the ruling power, and no one will be cast out. No, but for the right price…? Well, I’m a businessman at heart, have been for years. If they have what I want, I can make people disappear, or gift them with the one thing that truly rules over all of us: _Power._ ”

Sherlock could see it, staring into those crimson eyes. The chaos that would ensue would be legendary. Humans would find themselves amidst vampyres, werewolves, angels and all manner of other creatures. The terror would be unprecedented, there would be more wars, more death… All of which would feed through Jim, pulled effortlessly by his own hands like red sand sifting down an hourglass.

“I fail to see how this will benefit myself or others at all.” Sherlock managed, swallowing minutely. Jim clucked, sighing through his teeth. He looked disappointed.

“Boring, I thought you were quick at first, but evidently I need to spell things out. Free Will _means_ , Sherlock, that you can have your John with no consequences, no risk of punishment. No one dies unless I say so, thanks to my collection of Death over here.” He jerked a thumb to the shaking, silent, white-haired figure still crouched behind him. “And anyone I wish can be brought back, free of charge. You and John… you can be together. Forever solving cases, forever having your friends, your family around. Don’t you _miss_ them, Sherlock? Your _mother?_ Don’t you miss _Victor?”_

 

At his name Sherlock couldn’t help the small tremor that ran through him, though his eyes remained flat, impassive. There was a burning in his voice was he replied “People have _died.”_

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, it’s what they do. Come now, don’t tell me you’re so removed that the offer doesn’t at least tempt you? Think about it darling, doesn’t playing on the side of the angels get boring? You long for more, don’t care about the consequences. You’re like me. Hungry for the world to burn, keeping things that are yours tucked away while it smokes and bleeds into ash. We break things.” He looked then at the curled body of Moran, and Sherlock thought he saw something through the madness. A kind of endless, hazed grief. He sympathized, the same pang echoing in his own chest despite himself. His mother. Victor. So many people that he had lost over the years… Even John, leaving him for a time, letting him feel dejected and alone because he had no other choice…

The detective thought he could see it, see what the devil once was. For an instant, Sherlock looked and saw Moriarty’s wings, stretched behind him rotting and blackened, sickened by the rage and insanity within. They were massive, dark grey, and had likely once been beautiful. Now, they were great shrouds of decay.

 

It gave him the resolve for his jaw to clench, steel ringing through him as he clearly, savagely murmured _“No.”_

Moriarty sighed through his teeth, the sound was filled with regret.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t do this. _Truly,_ I had hoped.”

The hand seemed to come out of nowhere, gripping Sherlock by the throat. The detective found the oxygen in his lungs gone even as he was lifted off of the ground with superhuman strength, hoisted into the air. Moriarty’s eyes were blazing coals, his features twisted with annoyance.

“Boring after all, a shame. Really, humanity can be so… _dull.”_ Jim stepped forward then, dangling Sherlock like a blanket over the edge of the hospital roof. Clawing at the hand about his throat, Sherlock felt the instant his toes could no longer brush the ground. Wordlessly he gasped, perhaps for John, perhaps for someone else. He couldn’t look down, but he could feel the wind, tugging at his shirt and trousers. He could feel the drop in his bones. Moriarty’s voice hummed in his ears.

 

“You won’t die, you can’t until Death is released, and I can’t do that until I have Free Will to take ‘Bastian back from them. But you’ll break from this height, and then I can get to your filling inside, the heart of the problem.” He chuckled madly, and Sherlock felt the flex in his fingers. The devil smiled, his grin stretching out his face and making him appear cat-like. “Wrong day to die, but right day to fall. Johnny won’t save you this time, I’m afraid.”

Then he let go, and Sherlock found himself plummeting, his heart in his mouth as he fell, down, _down_ towards the earth.

 

****

John knew the moment Sherlock disappeared from the house. The tearing of the bond between he and Sherlock was visceral and sudden, and it felt as if his very heart were being torn from between his ribs, trampled. One moment he was looking out the window, the next he was on the floor, gasping and clutching at his chest where an invisible but all too real pain exploded like fireworks under his ribs. The agony rolled through the angel, leaving him breathless even as he felt himself crumple, head hitting the floor hard. The pain washed over him in waves, muting out even sound. Somewhere, there was a tinny shriek, something inhuman. it took him a moment to recognise the scream as something coming from his own lips.

 

Someone was holding him down. hands were pinning him in place, keeping John from clawing at his chest, his wings. When he opened his eyes, John thought for a moment he was looking up at waves of blonde hair, blue and kind eyes. Mary however melted away into Kate, screaming orders above him. Her voice sounded like a siren that went on and on, long after John blacked out.

 

He dreamed of Sherlock, and he dreamed of bridges and dark waters and a voice asking him in the dark for a light.

 

****

**“SHERLOCK!”**

 

John’s voice, screaming until it echoed in the darkness and jolted the detective into wakefulness. Sherlock’s eyes flew open, pale blue and wildly looking about even as he sucked in lungfuls of air, deep and cold. It made his chest cramp, and he blinked blearily at the soft white light that seemed to suffuse everything around him. He had thought he was falling, only a moment ago.

He had thought he had fallen.

 

It took him a moment, but the detective soon managed to seat himself upright, checking his head for injury and finding none. Instead, he found only the softness of his own curls, and a feeling of confusion as he looked out towards the grey abyss before him. Except it wasn’t endless, something shining a soft beacon of blue in the dark, a lantern.

As Sherlock got to his feet, the light flickered, seeming to respond to his movement. It shivered, rippling into something corporeal, a figure that the detective slowly came to recognise. The sight of it made something squeeze hard in his chest, despite time, despite the improbability of it all. Balls to probability, in the end. Sherlock was beginning to learn that it didn’t matter what he thought could happen any more.

 

Victor was made of blue fire, his eyes opening to glittering points of white light. Dressed the way he had been when he died, he appeared a phantom, ratty hoodie and jeans all blue and just the other side of transparent. He looked at Sherlock, and it was with an expression that the detective had never seen on his childhood friend’s face. It was somehow ancient, deep and considering. The voice that spoke from the being was at once Victor’s, and yet not.

_**“We meet at last, Sherlock Holmes.”** _

 

The detective swallowed, gathering himself enough to muster “Who are you? Why do you look like… Like him...?”

The being blinked, looking at itself in vaguest surprise. It held its own hands before itself, shrugging slightly as if the sight were slightly amusing, but not particularly strange.

_**“I am called many things, Free Will, Holy Spirit in more modern terms… People once used me to create warriors, beings called “Beserkers”. I am the feeling a child gets when they defy their parents for the first time, and the flame that causes humans to burn like candles in the dark. I take the shape of people of importance in my host’s life, though I can see you are… in pain. I can change my shape, if you wish?”** _

Before Sherlock’s eyes the light shifted, realigning itself into a more familiar form. Military-cut hair, tired eyes, and a thin but smiling mouth. John looked at the detective, his expression soft and filled with love. It made Sherlock’s stomach twist itself if possible even more tightly into knots. He grimaced, ignoring the guilt.

“Where are we?”

 _ **“Mind-Palace, I think you call it. I’ve been here for a long time… sleeping and sleeping, a piece of myself, a shard. Still, so much bigger than the ones found in most humans…”** _ Not-John shrugged, the same whispering voice tinged with indifference. Sightless eyes flicked to Sherlock’s face, a small smile quirking John-like lips. _**“Boring, isn’t it? Then again… being a mortal has been so much fun… Watching you grow…”**_

Then, John shifted, sinuously growing taller, gangly limbs stretching outwards, light hair darkening. Sherlock found that he was looking at himself, high-cheekboned and surrounded in his dark coat. It was a perfect, blue-tinged mimicry, a glowing mirror. _**“You’ve entertained me, and for that I give you thanks… Humanity, all so lovely, but so fragile in the end. Your body’s broken, and it’s only a matter of time until it too, fades away. Before those ones get here, and ruin my fun.”**_

“Moriarty, he’s coming after you. God, too.” Sherlock surmised, and he watched his own eyes flicker in approval before a wry smile quirked his twin’s face.

 

 _ **“Soon, and I’ll need to hide before they do. Choose a new human, a new existence. I will be born again, far into the future, the rest of me residing in chips in every human being.”**_ A pause then, and slightly softer _**“I do hope that by some chance, you survive. You were a fascinating vessel, a true masterpiece of humanity. For that, I let you love, and be loved. I’m sorry the trouble it’s caused you, truly.”**_ The light being stepped forward then, and Sherlock found his own hands on either side of his shoulders, impossibly old eyes looking into his own. _**“But that pain, that delicious, ridiculous pain, Sherlock, is what makes you a man, and not a machine. People forget, that I am small, but I am flame. Flame cannot exist without burning, without the agony of fire. It is the choice to keep coming back to that flame, that makes life.”**_

There was a rumbling then, a terrible tremor, and cracks appeared in the ground, deep fissures that spider-webbed outwards. Black darkness seeped in, trickling through the fog and leaving behind only an endless night. Sherlock cried out, breaking free of his reflection’s grasp, falling backwards. The darkness curled itself towards the blue silhouette of his twin, trying to twist itself, wrap itself about its limbs, its arms. The detective felt panic at the sight, wordlessly reaching out, even though an ocean of blackness separated them.

 

 _ **“Don’t worry.”**_ A wide grin, boyish and playful and free. Sherlock watched his reflection dart out their arms, heedless of the darkness,  tilting their head back as if they were experiencing true ecstasy. It was an expression of purest joy, exhilaration and freedom. _**“In the end, you need darkness-”**_ Lines of black began to crawl along the being’s legs, its arms. It lined its face, filled its mouth and ears and nose. Sherlock watched in horror, left on an island of grey with no real exit to be seen. The being was consumed by it, until only a thrumming, quivering silver-blue shine remained. Still its voice echoed, seeming to grow louder and louder, until nothing else registered to Sherlock’s ears. Not even the beating of his own speeding heart. _**“-For only in darkness, do you see the stars.”**_ The silhouette shattered, and like a thousand shooting stars, Sherlock watched in awe as balls of blue flame erupted in all directions, evading the sea of black as effortlessly as tearing through a spider’s web.

  
In the distance, Sherlock heard someone scream. At least, it started out as screaming. It was only when it turned into a monstrous howl of rage and indignation that the darkness rippled, and the detective realized that the devil might just have hit a snag even they hadn’t accounted for.


	37. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so dear readers, this is the official ending. There will be an epilogue, but this is it ^_^ It's been an honour writing this piece, experiencing it and watching it grow. I have a lot of editing to do, but in many ways... I'm both sad and happy that it's over. This became a massive project, and really was the fic that got me kickstarted into writing once again. To all of you- I hope that you enjoy the ending, and that you enjoy my fics to come :) 
> 
>  
> 
> The song is "You Found Me" by The Fray.

 

 

_I found God_   
_On the corner of First and Amistad_   
_Where the west_   
_Was all but won_

_All alone_   
_Smoking his last cigarette_   
_I said, "Where you been?"_   
_He said, "Ask anything."_   
_Where were you_   
_When everything was falling apart?_

_All my days_   
_Were spent by the telephone_   
_That never rang_   
_And all I needed was a call_   
_That never came_   
_To the corner of First and Amistad_

_Lost and insecure_   
_You found me, you found me_   
_Lyin' on the floor_   
_Surrounded, surrounded_   
_Why'd you have to wait?_   
_Where were you? Where were you?_   
_Just a little late_   
_You found me, you found me_

 

The clash of steel against flesh reverberated loudly amidst other sounds of battle, shrieking like a child in pain even as a thousand others echoed it. With it a howling snarl came from the Vampyre, the creature’s body rapidly turning ashen dust in the flicker of a heartbeat.

 

God withdrew the blade, thick blood coagulating rapidly, flaking off even as he pushed his way through the throng. The streets were filled with the sounds of carnage, bodied twisting left and right- giant wings blotting out the sky so that even the sun struggling through the dark clouds couldn’t be seen. Beside him Orifiel was thrown back, her wings flared out wide even as her weapon glowed hotly in her hand. Her forehead was slick with sweat, eyes green with fury.

“They killed the earth, the ground. I’ll _kill_ them.” She snarled, and from the ground there was a mighty crack, the pavement giving way as roots and vines coiled upwards like snakes seeking warmth. The other archangels knew well enough to move even as the plants jolted forward, attacking the enemy without mercy. The sound of flesh being ripped apart made a sharp counterpoint to the visions God was sifting through before him.

 

Layers of the future blurred before him, changing and shifting as the paths of time changed with each breath of angels before him, of the human race. It was a film over reality, slowing down time and causing the being’s violet eyes to seem almost aflame. Like decks of cards fanning out before him, people were taking suits after suits, reshuffling and moving them about until only one future seemed likely. One particular card, one event, had his eyes closing in a quiet sort of defeat.

“Orifiel, you’re in charge here. fan out the troops, make sure that they do not leave London.” It was with these words of parting that God sheathed his blade, eyes closing before he took a deep breath. Orifiel watched, stormy eyes serious even as her Father rose into the air with inhuman abilities, looking for all the world like the vengeful being of old texts as his feet, hands and eyes glowed an eerie and unsettling violet.

****

John felt it, saw it in his mind like a film, playing over and over. He saw Sherlock, talking to Moriarty. He saw them as they came closer together, heard the Devil’s words. He saw Sherlock’s face, frighteningly serious, cold.

When he woke, it was with the name of his Chosen being screamed on his lips. John felt arms holding him down, heard voices shouting above his own wailing. His wings felt like they were burning.

“ _Hurts_ , please! _**Sherlock!”**_

Irene’s voice was by his ear then, speaking to him tensely. He could feel her grip on his upper arms, holding him pinned to the floor. He was on his stomach- that thought registered with John dully.

“John, _John_ it’s going to be okay, we know it hurts but almost all of us have experienced it before. We know it feels like hell. I need you to just breathe, can you breathe?” John writhed, wondering fuzzily in his mind what was happening. Beyond the white-hot wall of pain that seemed to stretch in front of him, a distant part of him was aware vaguely of what was happening. he was losing his wings, Sherlock’s deal with the devil and subsequent fall turning their connection black, rotting. Yet that didn’t stop him from wanting to scream against the inner turning of his own nature, the feeling of being pulled almost inside out and back again. The angel wondered if now he could die, or if Sherlock was dead.

John couldn’t feel his presence. That, beyond the physical anguish, was perhaps the worst pain of all.

 

“Your fault.” He slurred, unsure if Irene heard him. He was growing dizzy again, things were melting away, too quickly for John to grab ahold of. His heart- the precious organ that he had once marvelled over for its beating, seemed to slow. As if through cold and frigid snow, he heard Gladstone. Her voice was soft, quiet. It was heavy with shock.

 

“They’re… _gone.”_

 

What was gone, John couldn’t seem to stay awake long enough to hear.

 

****

Sherlock was wandering in darkness, an echoing void that felt as deep as a canyon and dark as a winter’s night. It reminded the detective of the nights he spent homeless, and the darkness that would encroach the city under the mask of friendly lights, in alleyways just a little too long. He felt as if he were a boy all over again, shivering in the dark.

Except now… now he didn’t even have John, and Sherlock felt the darkness if possible seep into him further, making him wish that he could just disappear.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he wandered, time stretching at once forever and yet lasting only an instant. What Sherlock did know, was that the halo of light that appeared from a distance didn’t seem like it was fading away. As he got closer and closer, the detective came to realise that there was someone standing there, as if waiting for him. Though Sherlock didn’t recognise the silhouette, he felt the strangest of pulls, something warm and infinitely familiar. Like an old hug. It was a man, smoking Sherlock’s favourite brand of smokes. Their hair was a dark auburn, their eyes a deep and endless violet. They exhaled smoke as Sherlock approached, cigarette burning like a live coal as they flicked ash that disappeared into the darkness. Their voice was quiet, calm.

“I had to go deep looking for you, you’ve wandered pretty far into your own mind.”

“Is that where we are… this is my… head?” Sherlock craned his neck, looking into the darkness. The detective shoved his hands into his pockets, considering it for a moment. After a second, he murmured in polite disgust “It’s so… _empty.”_

 

The man before him smiled, lips twitching upwards around his smoke. He turned his gaze towards the impenetrable black, eyes somehow sad.

“You’re dying, that’s why it’s dark.”

“Oh.” Sherlock could only seem to come up with that one, small word in response. He didn’t feel as if he were dying. He just felt… a little cold. Lonely. Lost. It was as if he were a child, his father once again turning the lights off in his room, leaving him for sleep but truthfully just abandoning the detective to his own private thoughts. The feeling was the same, the kind of childish panic of being alone. The man exhaled smoke, and it was long and mournful thing.

“Yeah. _Oh._ John… he’s not going to forgive me for this, not that I expected much forgiveness to begin with.”

 

It clicked then for Sherlock, the bitterness of the man’s tone and his posture. A forgotten memory, long ago repressed filled his eyes- a violet-eyed lion putting him to sleep. The detective’s pale blue eyes narrowed, and his voice grew quieter. “If you’re here, I’m guessing there’s not much hope for me.” It was a shame, really. Sherlock had wanted to see John again, if only one more time… He had wanted to say goodbye at least, but that possibility now seemed distant and remote. God’s mouth tightened minutely, and he flicked cigarette ashes onto the ground. His hair glinted- fire and blood and shades of the universe all seemingly intermingled as one.

“The Devil has no more use for you, and Free Will’s gone, divided itself back into space and time. Even I can’t hope to track it any longer. It’ll be another hundred years at least before the core piece resurfaces again. Death will soon free themselves, now that the Devil has no leverage. Moriarty’s plans are over, but if I don’t stop him he’ll try again.”

“ _Why_ are you here then?” Sherlock couldn’t help but ask, wondering at his own importance when compared with Jim’s capture.

 

God’s violet eyes darkened ever so slightly. “Repaying John, for his service to me. He’s put up with far too much... I’m… stalling as it were. Buying time so that you can say goodbye. It might not be enough if he doesn’t hurry… But Death has offered to take you last, as gratitude. Thank your lucky stars, Sherlock, they don’t make that kind of agreement lightly.”

“Is John… is he alright?” The detective made himself ask, despite how the question made a rock in the pit of his stomach twist. He had to know, even if his hands by his sides tightened into fists at the thought of something being awry. He couldn’t feel the Bond between John and himself any longer, and he had felt as if from far away its unravelling. God sighed through his teeth, and Sherlock watched with an absent kind of fascination as the smoke turned heated crimson before fading away.

 

“John is alive, and he’s frankly lucky to be so. With such an abrupt tearing of your Bond, it was likely touch and go for a while. Bear in mind though your actions… John can never be an angel. Never again. It’s in the Old laws, laws older than time itself, and I _cannot_ change it, not even for a favourite of mine. This whole mess… it is a _result_ of leniencies I made when I was younger. It _cannot_ happen again. I cannot be impartial, but I must  _try."_

Sherlock’s fingernails were digging into his palm. He forced his voice to remain steady, despite how he wanted to lash out, attack the man before him. His voice was like ice.

“Where _were_ you? Why didn’t you stop this sooner? You’re supposed to be all-powerful and yet…”

_I’m as good as dead. And John...Oh, **John…**_

 

Sherlock found his hand shakily covering his mouth, and he couldn’t see to find the words that could express the true hatred he suddenly felt for the figure standing beside him. In that moment, the detective hated everything to do with God, with the man looking at him with mournful violet eyes, with the whole unfairness of his situation. Moriarty’s voice whispered in his ears, an echo of long-lost words: _**Aren’t you tired of being played like pawns?**_

 

“Even Gods die, Sherlock Holmes.” God whispered, eyes closing as if in pain. He stubbed out the rest of his cigarette, hands shoving themselves into the pockets of his beaten leather jacket. “And I have died many times, in the hearts of the things I have created. Over and over, I fail them. I know I do, and yet there is nothing to be done. Again and again, I must watch them suffer, and do you know why?” He looked at Sherlock carefully, and in his violet eyes, the detective saw flickering images. The sands of time. “Because without all of the suffering you have endured, all of the bullies and drugs and heartbreak- you would not be Sherlock Holmes. If you were not Sherlock Holmes… then you’d be something unknown. To lose you, to lose any of the people on this Earth… To me, that’s more heartbreaking than all the suffering in the world.”

“I don’t _believe_ you. All of this death, all of the pain I’ve seen… it _can’t_ be worth it to watch people die needlessly. _There has to be another way!_ It doesn't make  _sense!_ ” Sherlock snarled, but his rage was cooling itself into a kind of bitter resignation. At the end of the day, there was nothing he could do. The gaping acceptance of that was slowly gutting him like a fish, and the detective could do _nothing._

God looked at him carefully, his eyes somehow soft.

 

“And yet, it always ends this way. No matter what form I take, what human belief system I adhere to.” He murmured, and watched as the detective sunk to his knees wordlessly, hands gripping his curls tightly. Sherlock Holmes sobbed unlike any time he had ever before. It a wordless scream of outrage into the void, and though the darkness didn’t respond, it seemed to listen, to resonate with his cries. The detective in the end didn’t have the strength left to push them away when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around him, warm and comforting despite the agony they also could inflict. “I’m here, I’m sorry.” God whispered, and somehow, it made it all the worse. Sherlock screamed louder, cried harder, his voice echoing in the dark. Still the auburn-haired figure held him, whispering affirmation that he was still there, still alive somehow even with the darkness settling in, seeping through the detective’s very bones.

 

****

When John woke, it was nearly a full day later, and he knew right away that nothing was the same. It was the way his blood flowed through his body, somehow heavier, slower. It was in the way his eyes opened, the colours of the world seemingly dimmed. It was how when he sat up, he immediately knew without looking behind himself that his wings were gone.

 

John Watson woke instead to twin scars lancing pinkly down his back, a splitting headache, and absolutely no news about Sherlock. Yet he also woke to the sounds of peace, something he had not known for a while. A distant part of him wished he could feel something about it, something other than encroaching numbness. He looked over, finding Gladstone in her wolf form, lying stretched out on her stomach at the foot of his bed. Her breathing rose and fell in great, canine sighs, gold eyes opening a slit when John reached out one hand and tentatively stroked her massive ears. She whined at him, a wordless enquiry of welfare. John smiled a smile that didn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.

“Take me to him. You know his scent.” He pleaded, only to try and stand and find his legs wobbly as a newborn deer. In an instant the great wolf was by his side, supporting him. John’s leg hurt like it never had before, crackling pain up his spine. He grit his teeth past it, tasting metal in his mouth. He forced himself to take a step forward, then another. The sleeves of his jumpers hung just over his hands, scratching against Gladstone’s ruff where he gripped her for support. He made it to the door before he finally felt well enough to stand on his own.

 

When he was gripping the door-handle instead of her fur, John felt rather than saw Gladstone shift behind him. Her large eyes bore a hole into his back, burning.

“You won’t like what you find.” She murmured softly, not judgemental but firm. She peered at John’s back, knowing what lay under the cover of his woollen garb, the truth. “No one’s been near Bartholomew’s hospital, the angels have sectioned it off as a resting place. Most of the humans have escaped outside of London, those that survived. The news is having a field day- babbling about the end of times as it were. Death’s already taken who they need to, and they weren’t subtle about it. Came in full force, like something biblical people and angels and wolves just dropped like flies. Watched it all from a crack between the wood boarding up Irene’s windows. The angels have so much cleaning up to do it’s being discussed whether or not the supernatural even _should_ be kept from humans anymore. It's going to be an upheaval of everything we know. John, you _don’t_ need to.”

 

“I have to.” John whispered brokenly, his grip not loosening from the door. His eyes were closed, and he seemed likely to sway on his feet. “I promised him. I promised… I said I wouldn’t leave him. Never again.” John’s voice was thick, breaking over too many words to sound even remotely calm. Gladstone looked on, her eyes large and sad. Her brows were drawn together tightly.

“John… You’re no longer an angel, you’re not even connected anymore. He’s… he won’t be-”

_“Please.”_

The werewolf bit her lip, her shoulders drawing in resignation. After a silence that seemed to stretch out endlessly, she nodded in acquiescence.

“Okay.” She whispered.

 

It was in that moment that from below there was a banging on the front door, followed by a loud shouting. It was a voice that John recognised.

 _“Oi!_ Anyone of you lot in here know John Watson? Anthea says he might be in here.”

_Greg._

 

****

Anthea, Mycroft, Greg and Crow all looked scuffed and dirty, tired from a long trip. When God had sent the signal, both angels had immediately been overcome by it, entering the fray while simultaneously forcing Greg and Mycroft to wait it out behind an abandoned building. As a result, even Mycroft’s expensive three-piece was torn and ragged, streaked with rain water and soot. Yet when they saw John’s pale, thin frame all of them immediately jerked themselves to wakefulness, watching the way in which he gripped the banisters and walls for support. He looked like walking dead, and considering Greg had recently just seen what that looked like, he was somewhat wary of the shadow of a man approaching him.

 

When John was close enough Anthea stepped forward, wordlessly embracing her friend in a hug that had her wings spread outwards and around him. He found himself melting into it instantly, only cringing away when one shaking hand reaching out, caressing his spine and the lumpy scar tissue in kind. Anthea’s voice was thick with pain.

“Oh, _John…”_

Yet John didn’t want sympathy, and he gently extricated himself enough to take a step back, wordlessly looking at Mycroft. The government official’s eyes swept over him, pale and tired, and the elder Holmes lips quirked up in the quietest of smiles.

“I should have known you were Sherlock’s. You two were too joined at the hip not to be.” Wordlessly John looked towards the ground, his response feeling scratchy and stiff in his throat. Thirsty. Humans got thirsty.

 

“Will you come with me, to find him?” Both angels and humans alike nodded, Mycroft’s face somehow whitening further. Still his eyes were flinty.

“We’ll find my brother.”

John nodded, turning to look at Greg. The D.I’s brown eyes were kind.

“He’s an arrogant sod, but you’re my friend… and considering… everything-” He exchanged a meaningful look at Mycroft “-I can’t really say no. I like Sherlock, I like you. Let’s go get our detective back so I don’t have to fumble in the dark at my job.”

Gladstone, bare as the day she was born stepped forward then. Her gold eyes glowed, and she spoke even as she began to shift.

“You’ll ride on my back, it’s faster since you can’t fly.” John ignored the pang of deepest shame he felt at her words, only nodding. None of that mattered right now. Alll that mattered was Sherlock.

 

“John.” From the hallway, Irene Adler spoke. Her hair was missing its usual bun, instead falling relaxedly down her shoulders. She stood with two Nephilim children on either side of her, her dress deep blue. It made her eyes appear large and serious. She spoke with the faintest hint of a smile. “We’ll all be gone by the time you return. Fugitives, you know, even if God is really looking at amending his former rules like we think he might. Just, remember… I always keep my debts.” One manicured hand wove itself in her own hair then, eyelashes fluttering. Quietly, she added “And… give Sherlock my best. When all of this blows over… we should all go to dinner at some point.”

 

It was an insincere promise, a silent plea to come back. John’s mouth twitched upwards, and some of his numbness dissipated. He spoke words of true kindness for a moment, if only because for the first time, he found himself not looking at Irene as an enemy, but as a friend.

“I will.” Then his shoulders straightened, eyes darkening with determination, and he turned to hoist himself up on Gladstone’s massive back. The wolf’s body beneath his felt strong-wild and uncontrollable. John felt adrenaline seep into his veins, only heightening when he curled his fingers into her ruff. His voice was like steel.

 

“Let’s go.” And the werewolf threw back her head and _howled,_ the sound sending chills down everyone’s spine before she launched herself towards the open door with a mighty leap, claws clicking behind her.

 

****

Moriarty’s voice was like poison, even as he hung from chains blackened by Death itself. His eyes were burning like fire, twisted pits of rage and fury. When he screamed, he spat across the floor.

Death smiled, and it was a cold and cruel thing.

No one, not even God himself could stop them from collecting a debt. And Moriarty? He had collected the largest debt of all by making the mistake of kidnapping them. He had collected the debt of a thousand souls- starting with _Sebastian Moran's._

****

In the end, John knew before he even approached St. Bart’s that he wouldn’t have to push to see Sherlock. Most of the angels upon seeing him seated upon Gladstone parted like water, their mouth agape in terror as the werewolf made a show of gnashing her teeth and snarling menacingly. It bought John leverage, and he found himself stumbling forward, Mycroft and Greg only a step behind as they came to the strip of pavement that had been blocked off from prying eyes.

 

A singular, crumpled form greeted them, and John felt as though he were being struck right in the stomach, all of his air leaving him at once. His knees gave out on him a foot from Sherlock’s prone form, the pavement pressing harshly into his jeans. He stared unseeingly at the pale face looking blankly up at him, one hand shakily reaching out to touch at the head wound, bleeding long since dried and sticky on Sherlock’s face. The detective’s expression was one of slack, dreamlike quality, staring out at nothing, his eyes dark and vacant. John stifled a sob, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth even as his other reached out, drawing the detective onto his lap. Behind John, Mycroft too fell to his knees, face horrified and blank as he looked at John and his brother, curled around one another but Sherlock’s body frightfully unresponsive. The elder Holmes felt rather than saw Greg, his presence by his shoulder.

 

It was with a small voice that really didn’t sound much like himself at all that Mycroft murmured “Oh, Sherlock. What have you _done?”_

In that moment, Anthea let out the most painful of cries up towards the sky, her wings tingeing from ice-blue to Sherlock’s peacock greens and Cobalt. It was mixed with grey from grief. John barely heard it, his face pressed to Sherlock’s chest, his coat. Tears, heavy and hot and anguished dripped down his face- but they were not angelic. Instead, they were clear, salty. It tasted to John like sadness. The thought only made him cry harder.

“Don’t be dead. _Jesus,_ please. Don’t be dead.”

Sherlock continued to merely stare blankly up at him, lost and gone. The sight angered John. He screamed, and the sound was high and pained, making a sharp counterpoint to Anthea’s mournful sound. A moment later, Crow joined in, all three of them making a wordless hum towards the sky that was soon joined one by one by the angels looking on, experiencing their grief. It didn’t matter, pretence anymore. No one bothered to wipe their eyes at a funeral, no one fought back tears when there was no one looking on. Gladstone’s was the loudest of all, a shining brass note underneath higher sopranos. It was a funeral sound, the sound of something precious lost. It didn’t make it better, and John found himself rocking in place, hand desperately searching for Sherlock’s wrist- checking in vain for a pulse he knew wouldn’t be there.

 

The angels sang on, even as his hand brushed something cold. For one painful moment, John thought it was skin. Yet it was too hard, too cool, and he looked down at Sherlock’s closed hand, fingers curled loosely around a small vial. Frowning, John reached forward, pulling apart Sherlock’s stiff and unresponsive fingers to find a jewel-red beacon staring at him, liquidus and vivid.

“What…?” John murmured aloud, and Mycroft heard just enough to lean forward, look at what had made John’s tears temporarily slow. Through a thick voice he asked

“What is it?”

 

John wasn’t listening however, Irene’s voice suddenly murmuring in his ear.

_I always repay my debts._

“A miracle.” He found himself breathing, and he uncorked the vial, sniffing it. The sharp scent confirmed it, John for a moment forgetting his grief, forgetting his pain. His heart began to beat faster, frantically. “It’s not a selfish wish. Asking for someone’s life. It’s not considered a selfish wish because  _we're no longer connected!"_

 

And before anyone could hope to stop him, John downed the vial, tasting raspberry cordial and fire and flame and a warm surging through his bones, tingling in his fingertips. His head tilted back, eyes opening wide as his lips parted with a gasp.

  
At the same instant, Sherlock’s chest heaved with life.


	38. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Song is "Here I am" by Bryan Adams

 

 

 _Here we are - we've just begun_  
_And after all this time - our time has come_  
_Ya here we are - still goin' strong_  
_Right here in the place where we belong_  
  
  
_Here I am - next to you_  
_And suddenly the world is all brand new_  
_Here I am - where I'm gonna stay_  
_Now there's nothin standin in our way_  
_Here I am - this is me_

 

 

Sherlock woke to the sleepy feeling of someone pressing wordless kisses to the back of his neck, pressing downwards along his spine. It was a pleasant pressure, familiar and warm, and he sighed into the pillow even as John’s hands slid effortlessly about his middle. The feeling left a sleepy kind of comfort seeping through the detective’s very bones, leaving him feeling safe, calm.

 

It was the strangest sensation still, the absence of feeling his partner’s thoughts in his own mind. Sherlock half suspected he would never quite get used to it, that unsettling silence. John was his own person now, he was no longer connected to Sherlock’s psyche. Yet, strangely, Sherlock had never before felt so close, so comforted. He tried not to think about how it made a peculiar tightness well into his throat, the sort that left him breathless. The detective went back to sleep with a burning in his eyes nothing to do with sadness.

 

****

 

John had nightmares now, sometimes. He’d wake screaming now and again, clawing at his back, shouting for Sherlock. He worried if his companion left him for too long, grew nervous and twitchy when Sherlock spent too much time out of his line of sight. It was a reasonable enough fear- being an angel for so long meant John was unused to the echoing silence in his own brain. It also meant that no one was guarding Sherlock’s soul anymore, he was a walking anomaly.

It frightened John, the idea of something happening to his partner, his _friend_.

 

He wondered if every human felt fear in this way- iron and bitter on their tongue. There were so many human things that John didn’t understand- even having lived by Sherlock’s side for so long. Then again, he supposed at least he had it marginally better than the other angels in the world, now visible to their Chosens. He could blend in, look human because he was. The thought of it sent a churning in John’s gut if he reflected upon it for too long.

Luckily, Sherlock had a habit of distracting his partner before his thoughts became too bogged down in the uncertainty of his place in the world.  

 

Sherlock had a myriad of ways in which he made sure to keep John’s thoughts occupied. He wasn’t above hitting below the belt, and in many cases it meant that the detective had a habit of stopping John in the middle of their flat, pressing against the nearest surface and kissing him senseless. Since his resurrection the detective felt a new zest for life, and he seemed to feel compelled to memorise John’s new body. He would press kiss after kiss to the column of the man’s throat, his chest. Sherlock’s fingers found themselves tracing the line of scarring down John’s back, even as his lover would part his lips in a wordless cry, his own fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair. Sex was different from when he had been an angel- John no longer felt Sherlock’s own pleasure physically. Yet there was a new layer of intimacy to it, a kind of trust. John had to ask Sherlock what he wanted, speak aloud to the detective what he craved. It was a give and take, and John thought that he could never get enough of it, not even if he lived to be a hundred years old. He didn't mind being mortal, if this was the reward. It was with that thought, that a part of John knew he'd never see his Father again. Not at least, until he died. 

 

Other times, distractions came in far gentler forms. Soft touches, absent cups of tea set out for him on a bad day when the world felt dull and his back ached. John wondered to himself often how anyone could have possibly looked at Sherlock and seen someone cold-blooded, because in the months to come after his fall the detective couldn’t have been more attentive and kind. It was as if Sherlock was afraid that John would shatter- and to be fair the first few weeks after, it had felt to the man that he might. In kind, John saw to it that he didn’t break, even when some days he wanted nothing more than to scream, and scream and scream until his lungs gave out.

 

Both detective and companion found that living in the new London- the one with giant werewolves serving coffee at the Starbucks and angels living side by side with humans, was strangely tolerable. Gladstone had opened a sort of shelter for the strange creatures that seemed to come out of the cracks- Nephilim, wolves and other beings that the angel himself hadn't even known existed, and most could adapt to the world, given the chance to step into the sunlight of existence. After all, no human could think of harming their own guardian, and no angel would ever intentionally wound a human being. It was a strange city now, one made of unprecedented peace. John found himself hoping even as he treated one of Gladstone’s packmates for ringworm that he wouldn’t mind so much, if the rest of the world soon began to follow suit.

Mycroft, at least, was advocating for it.

 

****

 

The British government was already a painfully slow, complicated system, and in truth it really didn’t need divine intervention added into the mix. Mycroft for the first several months couldn’t even count the number of nights he spent in a row working, pulling shifts that would have made even a seasoned member of medical staff wince in horror and sympathy.

 

It was a security threat that a person’s angel had to accompany them everywhere they’d go, and yet no one could hope to really persuade Anthea or any other angel for that matter to leave their Chosen for even a moment. No one had dared even suggest it, even as during board meetings Mycroft winced internally at how all of the new faces looked at him, now open about their judgement instead of invisibly aligned with their counterpart human. There were so many meetings, so many arguments, and an angel's wings would change colour even if a human gave nothing away. Lie detectors, and no one was entirely comfortable with their intents put on vivid display behind them. It was strange, seeing men and women he’d known for years have new shadows hovering beside them, and stranger still was Mycroft’s own fierce attachment to the guardian who had looked after him for as long as he had breathed.

 

Anthea was… well she was not a romantic interest. At first, Mycroft had admittedly worried about that aspect- Sherlock and John not exactly being the best examples of an angel-human codependence. Yet from the moment Mycroft had looked at her, he had felt a sense of security in Anthea’s dark eyes, in the way she smiled. If he had to describe their Bond, it would have been much like that of a sibling. Not as tumultuous as Sherlock’s relationship to him, Anthea was very much blood to the elder Holmes, a piece of himself. Much of the first few weeks Mycroft would come home and merely sit with her, getting her to know her as she knew him. It was so strange, and yet in so many ways like he had found a puzzle piece he had never known he’d lost.

 

The other puzzle piece he found in Gregory, who came to him with his own angel, Crow. The D.I since Sherlock’s fall and resurrection had taken to visiting Mycroft at his new flat, tentatively feeling out the perimeters of their relationship. It was a kind of intimacy that was both new and old, and neither of them could quite deny that they hadn’t been affected by that one meeting years ago in the rain. No one was really surprised when they decided to try moving in together, though Mycroft feared for Greg’s safety as a chink in the Ice Man’s armour, and Lestrade feared that Mycroft would tire of him. It was a relationship that took time to mend, the years turning both men into different people, teenagers no longer but willing to try.

 

The first time they found themselves bare with one another, Anthea and Crow aware of what was happening but politely in another room, Mycroft couldn’t help but shiver under the warmth of Greg’s fingers on his shoulder, down his spine. Similarly, Lestrade looked at the freckles dotting his lover’s body, and shuddered at the idea that they covered him from the shoulders-down. Greg hadn’t ever thought he’d end up at that moment- after a failed marriage and a painful string of bad luck and dating. Yet as he pressed his lips to those freckles, he found himself unable to imagine life in any other way.

 

In the living room, Crow and Anthea sat side by side, held in each other’s arms. Though angels rarely felt romantic love, they understood intimacy. Together, they watched as the handprints on each of their wings began to bleed their colours, swirling into their feathers so that ice-blue became dotted with a starry path of deep indigo, and dark night was lit by the colours of a tropical sea. They thought to themselves they had never seen such a beautiful sight before, and just once, both thought that sometimes, just _sometimes,_ the people who touched a person’s life was bound to meet them again and again from the very start.

 

****

A violet-eyed man smoked a cigarette in the darkness of Hyde park, tired gaze peering up at the sky that was alight with stars.

He smiled because when he looked into the future, his leaving meant that the world could shine more brightly, and he could see people smiling despite fear of the unknown. Humanity, joining hands with angels and the supernatural. A crazy, mad idea, brought forth by an equally mad detective and his blogger.

Turning up his hood God walked on, ash spitting from his smoke as with each step he faded, a ghostly image rippling and vanishing into the Earth itself.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Way I Feel For You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269184) by [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama)




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